Redefining Joy
by sam's folly
Summary: Story #1 of the Redefining Joy 'Verse. Sam is hurt after a routine hunt. AU set sometime during Season 2. Romance with OFC for Sam.
1. Chapter 1

_**WARNING: Although I'm not a medical professional and I do not have paraplegia (nor am I a guy), this story is, I hope, a realistic portrayal of what it's like to be a male with an SCI (spinal cord injury), and nothing is sugarcoated. There are detailed, sometimes crude, descriptions and references to bodily functions in this fic. I debated on whether I should give this an M rating, but after skimming over other stories with that rating, this one seemed tame by comparison. However, depending on feedback I get (if any), I will change the rating if a lot of you think I should. ****The "F" word and other bad language is also in this fic.**_

_**Author's note: This is set sometime in Season 2. It is pretty much AU. John was killed when the Impala was hit by the semi. There was no deal with the demon to save Dean's life. He just healed through modern medicine and is fine.**_

_**A/N 2: As I said, I'm not a medical professional, so I apologize for any inaccuracies. Please know, also, that I read a lot of personal accounts of men with SCI, and a lot of what Sam experiences is based on those accounts. I have nothing but the utmost respect for these awesome guys, and no offense was intended in the writing of this story.**_

_**A/N 3: Last but not least, this is not my first fan fic, and I don't have a beta. Please forgive any proofing mistakes or typos. Also, if you end up liking this story, I now have a sequel posted called "Rocket Science."  
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**Chapter 1**

Sam was lying almost flat on his back, plastic oxygen cannula in his nose, and he was hooked up to IVs and wires that lead to various bags of fluid and monitors. He felt groggy and sluggish. He had been told they would have to work on inclining his bed a few degrees at intervals because sitting him up too quickly would cause him to pass out. He'd been in and out of consciousness for a couple of days following his surgery, but today he'd been more aware of his surroundings—too aware. He wanted to fall back into oblivion and never come back. He knew what was coming, and he didn't want to face it.

It was supposed to have been a relatively simple job, a haunting, an easy salt-and-burn. What they hadn't counted on was the poltergeist—the poltergeist that thought it was fun to throw professional-grade kitchen knives at them. Sam and Dean had been running to get out of the house, but before Sam could make it to the door, he felt the sharp, white-hot pain of a knife penetrating his back, a direct hit to his spine. He felt his ability to feel and move the lower half of his body drain from him, as if draining away through the hole the knife had created in his back, replaced by a terrible cold, and then nothing. The next thing he'd remembered was waking up in recovery from surgery and feeling the strange, terrifying sensation that half his body was missing.

Dean was standing next to Sam's bed now, his hand on Sam's shoulder. It was meant to be a comforting gesture, a show of support.

Dr. Longwell, Sam's neurosurgeon, stood on the other side of the bed opposite Dean so Sam could see him. The stocky, fortyish man in hospital-green scrubs and a white coat cleared his throat, his grave demeanor clearly giving off the vibe that he'd rather be anywhere than where he was standing at that moment. "You seem more cognizant today, Sam. Do you feel like talking about the results of your surgery?"

Sam felt Dean squeeze his shoulder, and Sam blinked slowly and nodded, although he didn't really want to hear.

"We stopped the bleeding, and everything looks good on that score. There were no broken vertebrae, so there was no need for any orthopedic intervention, such as rods or screws, which should make your time in this hospital and hopefully rehab much less. There should also be less pain." He paused and sighed deeply before continuing. "I'm sorry, Sam, but the spinal cord itself was completely severed."

Sam had known it was coming, but it didn't keep his heart from plummeting to his stomach. Tears burned his eyes, and he fought them by staring at the ceiling, unable to look at Dean or the surgeon.

Dean was silent too, but his grip on Sam's shoulder had tightened to where it was almost painful.

"Contrary to what most people believe, a truly severed spinal cord is very rare. Usually, the only things that can penetrate the tough dura protecting the spinal cord are bullets or a knife. The knife that penetrated your back cut your spinal cord so perfectly it was almost surgical in nature. I've never seen anything like it." He paused, and his manner was grim. "I'm sorry, Sam, but there's not much hope I can offer. Based on the degree of movement and sensation you've exhibited thus far, it looks like you have complete paraplegia at the T10 level.

Even though Sam had expected it, it still felt like the doctor had to be talking to someone else. This couldn't be happening. It hadn't been him in that house getting stabbed in the back by a fucking ghost. It was some bad movie he'd been watching or some horrible nightmare, or maybe the painkillers were causing him to hallucinate. That fucking surgeon hadn't just told him there was no hope, hadn't just told him his spine had been cut, hadn't just implied that he would never walk again.

It couldn't be real. He was only twenty-three years old, and his life was over.

Dean's voice was heavy and gruff when he said, "That level—" He faltered and cleared his throat. "What does 'T10' mean?"

_It means I can't feel or move a fucking thing from the waist down_, Sam thought angrily, still staring at the ceiling. He felt his throat thicken and a rush of warmth suffuse his body—at least the part he could feel—and he clenched his fists so his hands wouldn't shake. He could hear the heart-rate monitor beep faster as his pulse began to hammer.

Dean seemed to realize he had a death grip on Sam's shoulder, and he loosened it and began to rub gently in reaction to the rapid beeping of the monitor. "Easy, Sammy. It's gonna be okay."

Sam fought back another rush of tears.

"T10 is at the level of the umbilicus or navel," explained Dr. Longwell, looking even more uncomfortable than he had in the beginning. "It means that below that level of the thoracic spine, there is no, uh, sensation or function. I'm sorry, but it means that in addition to complete paralysis of the legs, there will most likely be no control over the bladder or bowel, and," he cleared his throat nervously, "sexual function to any degree is also highly unlikely but not completely impossible. However," he quickly added, "the injury is low enough that Sam will have most of the function of his abdominal muscles, which will aid tremendously in trunk control and balance. He will most likely be able to sit up without aid."

Dean was silent.

_Wow, I'll never have sex again, but I'll be able to fucking sit up! _Sam might have laughed at the incongruity of the words if they hadn't been so utterly devastating. Instead, he wanted to die. Half of him was already dead, was just dead weight anchoring him to earth. He was half a man.

"Some patients with that level of injury are able to stand and walk with the aid of leg braces and a walker or crutches. It probably wouldn't be the preferred method for getting around in day-to-day activities, but it would be a good way to exercise and stretch out your muscles and skeleton, if you are able."

A long, uneasy quiet settled over the room until Dr. Longwell finally cleared his throat again and said, "Well, if there are no more questions for now, I will let you two, uh, have some time to, uh, maybe discuss this." He gave Sam's forearm an apologetic squeeze and left Sam's line of sight, his footsteps receding quickly out the door of Sam's ICU room.

Dean sank down into the faux leather chair next to Sam's bed that had been Dean's home for the last three and a half days.

Sam couldn't look at him, didn't want to see the pity and sorrow that he knew was on his brother's face, so he continued to stare at the ceiling. The patterns on the acoustic tiles were becoming etched in his mind, and he willed himself to stay in control, to take it like a man.

Then he remembered he wasn't a man anymore, was only half a human, and he was overcome with humiliation and grief. He closed his eyes, refusing yet again to cry. It was all he had left, all he could control, and he'd be damned if he'd let a single fucking tear fall, despite the huge mountain of a lump that threatened to close off his throat from air.

He heard Dean say, "It'll be okay, Sammy. We'll figure this out." There was a hesitation, and then he said, "I'm gonna call Bobby."

Sam forced himself to look at Dean, willing his voice to push through his narrowed throat. "No. I don't want you to call Bobby."

"Sam, he would want to help. He—"

"I said no. I don't want him here."

Dean was silent for a moment, and then he sighed and squeezed Sam's forearm. "They don't know what we know. It's gonna be okay."

Sam slowly closed his eyes and turned his head away. _Fuck off, Dean. _Nothing would ever be okay again.

**Six weeks later, Philips Rehabilitaiton Center, Des Moines, Iowa**

Sam was sitting in his new titanium wheelchair, one custom made for his height and needs. He'd had it for a week, and it was now the most important thing in his life. It was his means to do just about everything from now on, and he should be grateful to have it, should force himself to get used to it, but he couldn't. He hated it, despised it, and when he was in it, he felt claustrophobic. It didn't give him a sense of independence or freedom. It made him a prisoner. Of course, he hadn't told anyone how he felt. He never told anyone anything. He talked enough to get him through the day and no more.

His psychiatrist, Dr. Logan, had voiced her fears that he was severely depressed and threatened to put him on an antidepressant. He already took pain meds for the phantom burning sensation he sometimes felt in his legs and medication to prevent his legs from spasming, so what was one more drug? Maybe it would make him feel nothing. At least that would be better than this black hole of anger and despair that he just kept spiraling down into.

So far, though, Dr. Logan hadn't acted on her threat. She just kept trying to get him to share, to talk to other patients at the center who knew what he was going through.

As far as Sam was concerned, though, there was nothing anyone could say that would make his current situation any better, and he didn't want to hear it. He wanted to finish the rest of his rehab and get the hell out. He still had six more weeks to go, and the thought just sent him further into depression.

Jake, his occupational therapist, was sitting at the little table in Sam's room at the rehab center across from Sam, and Dean was in between them, sitting in the extra chair. They had been discussing some of the bathroom modifications Sam would need, and Jake was providing them with a packet on how and where to make the adjustments. "You will need a shower chair," Jake was saying, "and the type will depend ultimately on where you end up living and the type of tub or shower it has."

"We're going to live at our friend Bobby's in South Dakota," Dean informed him.

Sam looked at Dean in surprise, which quickly morphed into anger.

"Don't look at me like that, Sammy. Bobby offered, and it's the best solution for right now. He's gonna make some modifications to his house so it will be easier for you to move around."

"No."

"Sam, let's just wait until Jake is finished, and then we can talk about it."

"I said no. I'm not going to live there."

Dean drew his brows into a vee. "All right. You got a better suggestion?"

"San Diego."

"Why?"

"Good accessibility and good weather. Easier for me to get around and regulate my body temperature."

"Yeah. It's also in California, one of the most expensive places to live in the U.S."

Sam shrugged. "It's where I'm going to live, Dean. If you don't like it, don't go."

Dean looked hurt for a split second before he could hide it, and in the days before his injury, Sam might have felt guilty for what he'd just said. But, now, he just didn't care. His compassion had been numbed along with the lower half of his body. The only thing he could feel was rage and resentment—resentment for anyone with two working legs, and that included his brother.

Dean stared at Sam, so many things he wanted to say written on his face.

But Sam knew he wouldn't say them. Dean handled him with kid gloves, now. The Dean that used to never pass up an opportunity to joke around with Sam and tease him was gone. There was nothing to laugh about anymore, nothing funny about your little brother being a paraplegic for life, and Sam took advantage of it. Dean would go to San Diego without another word. It's what poor, crippled Sam wanted. And if, by some remote chance Sam was wrong, it didn't matter. He would go to San Diego with or without Dean.

Jake cleared his throat, clearly uneasy at the tension between the two brothers. "Maybe we should cover the rest of this another time."

"It's fine," said Sam in a flat, detached tone. "Go ahead."

Jake looked even more uncomfortable. "It's just that, um, we need to talk about your bladder and bowel management programs now that you're out of the spinal shock phase. As you know, for your bladder program right now you have an indwelling catheter and leg bag, but your doctor, your physical therapist, and I think you're ready to choose a better solution."

Sam suddenly felt sick to his stomach. Anything to do with his catheter had been taken care of by nurses until now, and Sam had stared at the ceiling, a common habit of his these days, whenever they had dealt with it. He had always pretended that he was somewhere else, that what they were doing was being _done_ to someone else, but Jake's words were a hard slap in the face. Sam closed his eyes and swallowed hard, forcing bile back down his throat. Taking a deep breath and clenching his jaw, he said, "I don't want to discuss this in front of Dean."

Dean slumped a bit, that same look of sorrow crossing his face that Sam hated.

_Fuck off, Dean. I don't want your pity._

Dean rose from his chair and squeezed Sam's shoulder.

Sam stiffened.

"I'm gonna go get some coffee. I'll be back in a little while.

Once Dean was gone, Jake cleared his throat. "Okay, Sam. With your type of bladder dysfunction, there are three types of bladder management methods—indwelling cath with leg bag, which is, as I said, what you currently have; external or condom catheter, which also includes using a leg bag; and CISC, or clean intermittent self-catheterization, which involves emptying your bladder with a temporary catheter every four to six hours, depending on your bladder capacity and fluid intake. The consensus is that CISC would be the best choice for you, as it is for most paraplegics, and we think you should see how that works for you before trying the condom cath. We don't recommend sticking with the indwelling cath, since urinary tract infections are more common with that method."

_This isn't real. I can't be having this conversation. When am I going to wake up from this nightmare?_

"With CISC," Jake went on, "there is less chance of contracting a urinary tract infection, and it prevents the bladder from becoming overfilled and losing its muscle tone. It allows the bladder to be fully emptied, preventing the problem of residual urine backed up in the bladder, which could cause a bladder infection. Most importantly, it is the method that is most like normal voiding, and you don't have to deal with collection bags. You can just empty directly into a toilet."

Jake continued to explain, showing Sam a diagram of how to do the procedure, but Sam could barely hear him. There was a sort of buzzing sound in his ears, and he felt as if the blood was draining from his head. He had ignored it before, had let nurses take care of everything, had been in denial; but the stark, humiliating reality that he was incontinent, that he couldn't even piss or take a crap anymore without "managing it," had just suddenly made itself known with a vengeance.

He couldn't live like this. The nightmare was getting worse with each passing day. It was even harder knowing there was no hope. Other patients at the rehab center, even those diagnosed with complete injuries, still had hope that maybe their doctors were wrong or maybe there would be a miracle cure. None of them had completely severed spinal cords except Sam. Dr. Longwell had told Sam later on that he hadn't even been able to see one of the ends of Sam's spinal cord. There was no one-in-a-billion chance that it could ever be sewn back together or that some breakthrough in research might help him. He had nothing to reach for, to dream about. He would be like this forever, no matter what, unless he could find something supernatural to cure him.

He knew that Dean and Bobby had been looking for some supernatural solution for the past six weeks, and they had found nothing, except, of course, making a deal with a demon or selling his soul. At first, even Sam hadn't considered those options, but, lately, especially after sessions like this one with Jake, Sam had begun to reconsider. He was already living in hell here on Earth. Why not sell his soul for at least a few years of being whole before he was eternally damned?

He would give it a little more time. Maybe Dean and Bobby or Sam himself would be able to find a better choice. But if they didn't, he was going to do something to get himself out of this fucking wheelchair, no matter what it took.

**Six and a half months later, San Diego, California**

"Sam?" said Dean with a scowl as he walked out of the kitchen of their apartment in San Diego, holding a pair of Sam's boxers and oversized jeans in his hand that Sam had worn yesterday. Dean had been in the utility nook off the kitchen doing his and Sam's laundry.

Sam was sitting in the living room on the black-vinyl sofa they'd bought at the local Salvation Army, staring at some idiotic reality show on TV that he wasn't really interested in, but he had nothing better to do. He was, of course, capable of helping Dean with the laundry, but Dean never asked for his help, and Sam wasn't going to offer. Dean felt sorry for him, and Sam hated him for it, and he got a perverse pleasure out of taking advantage of Dean's pity. Dean waited on Sam hand and foot, and Sam let him.

"There's a stain on these," said Dean, holding up the offending articles of clothing. "A lot of it. You been checking your skin like you're supposed to?"

"Yeah," Sam lied, and looked back to the TV, feeling a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Sam had to wear his pants loose, usually a size larger than what he actually needed, in order to avoid rubbing his skin and causing a breakdown. Because he was in one position sitting in his wheelchair most of the time—or always _sitting_ somewhere—he was supposed to be vigilant about looking at his skin on the lower half of his body for pressure ulcers, but he hadn't done it in a while. He hated looking at his already-shrinking buttocks and legs, hated taking a mirror and forcing himself to look at the parts of his body that he couldn't move or feel.

"You sure you been checking?"

Sam's jaw tightened. "Yes."

Dean came over to the sofa and sat down next to Sam, laying the boxers and jeans on the coffee table. Leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, he said in a quiet voice, "Let me see."

"Fuck you," said Sam without ever looking away from the TV.

Dean exhaled a deep breath. "You can cooperate with me, Sam, and this can be done quickly, or we can do it the hard way, and I can kick your ass first. Either way, I'm gonna take a look."

"Go ahead and kick my ass, Dean. I won't feel it."

There was a beat of silence, and then Dean said, "Dammit, Sam! This could be serious. If you've got a pressure sore, it needs to be taken care of as soon as possible. You know that. They drilled that into both our heads at rehab."

Sam didn't answer. Truth be told, the thought that he might have a pressure sore scared the shit out of him, but he wasn't going to let Dean look him over like he was some helpless invalid. The thought of Dean seeing the dead half of his body was mortifying.

Dean reached over and put a hand on Sam's forehead.

Sam leaned out of his reach, batting his hand away. "Don't touch me."

"You've got a fever. I can feel it. If you won't let me check it out, Sam, then go look for yourself. You can't ignore this."

Sam would never admit it, but he knew Dean was right. He gave an annoyed sigh and slammed the remote down between him and Dean on the sofa. With little effort, he pulled his butt forward on the sofa, fisted a hand on the sofa and grabbed the frame of his wheelchair with the other, and transferred himself to the seat of it. He then lifted his legs one at a time and positioned his feet on the footplate. The maneuver was second nature to him now, and that thought made him even angrier. He didn't want to adjust to this life, didn't want to accept it.

Without another word, he wheeled himself to his specially modified bathroom, which he also hated the sight of because it looked like some bathroom from a nursing home, and grabbed a hand mirror. He then wheeled himself to his adjoining bedroom, transferred himself to his unmade bed, lay down, and shimmied off his jeans and boxers. With the hand mirror, he reluctantly looked at his buttocks, and was horrified by what he saw. There was a hideous, oozing sore about two inches in diameter on his right butt cheek, and the sight of it almost made him gag. For once, he was almost glad he couldn't feel it, because if he could, he knew it would be extremely painful. Of course, if he could feel things down there, he would never have gotten the fucking sore in the first place.

Feeling more debased and horrified than he ever had in his life, he painstakingly began to get his boxers and jeans back on, having to roll himself to one side and then the other until he finally had them pulled up to his waist, which was how he had to get his pants on these days. He lay there for a moment, feeling a little short of breath, trying to summon the nerve to tell Dean he needed to go to the hospital.

He had been taught in rehab the importance of keeping an eye out for pressure ulcers. He was supposed to check his body for them every day. It should be second nature, like brushing his teeth or combing his hair, but because he'd been in denial and blown it off, he was probably looking at some serious hospital time.

He was overwhelmed by the enormous unfairness of it all, and he clenched his teeth and tightened his fists, could feel himself tremble with futile rage. But he didn't shed a fucking tear. Instead, he sank just a little deeper into the black abyss of misery that was now his pathetic life.

**XXXXXXXX**

A few hours later, Sam was lying on his side in a hospital bed pretending to be asleep. They had lightly sedated him in order to insert a PICC line into his arm to administer antibiotics to him long term. His doctor, Dr. Salazar, had estimated that Sam would be in the hospital around a month. Sam had been exposed to a bacterial infection as a result of the open wound of the pressure sore, and it was causing him to run a low-grade fever. That, and the fact that pressure ulcers were notoriously slow-healing, ensured a long hospital stay and probably several weeks or months of bed rest once he got home. It was going to suck.

He could hear Dean and Dr. Salazar talking quietly near the door to his room. Obviously, they thought he was asleep. It was a semi-private room, and he had the bed nearest the door. He didn't have a roommate, as of yet.

"It's a Stage III ischial tuberosity ulcer on the right side," explained Dr. Salazar, "which basically means it's on his right butt cheek. I'm classifying it as Stage III because it has just hit the deeper skin tissue and because of the infection, but some might call it a bad Stage II. Sam's lucky. He won't need surgery."

_Oh, yeah. I'm the luckiest guy in the world,_ thought Sam sarcastically.

"Dean, this should have been easy for Sam to detect and nip in the bud if he'd been diligent in watching for it. I see that he's a little over six months out from his injury. How do you think he has been adjusting up to this point?"

Dean snorted. "He hasn't. I mean, he goes through the motions, does the things he has to do—or I thought he was, anyway—but he's really angry and depressed. I wouldn't say that he's adjusting, not by a long shot."

"His records say he's not on an antidepressant; is that correct?"

"Yes. They threatened to put him on one in rehab, but they never followed through."

"I think it's time we put him on one. It might help him to adjust better. Sam's failure to look over his skin as he was taught in rehab isn't laziness, just so you know. It's a form of denial."

"Denial?"

"Yes. When Sam has to scrutinize the immobile part of his body to look for skin breakdown, it forces him to see how his life has changed in a very brutal, intimate way. There is no escaping what has happened to him. We can hardly blame him for not wanting to face that."

Dean was silent.

"Go easy on him, Dean. I know you were upset with him when you brought him here earlier, but just put yourself in his place. It's going to take him a while to accept what has happened to him, but hopefully the antidepressant will offer him some relief from some of the destructive feelings he's having, and he'll come around. Since he's going to be hospitalized for several weeks, we can monitor him closely to see how he does on the new medication and how it interacts with his painkiller and the antispasticity med. I'm also going to have him taking some protein supplements. His blood work showed some nutritional deficiencies that we need to address, especially since he's got this pressure ulcer. Proper nutrition is vital to facilitate healing."

"He basically eats a diet of Lucky Charms at home."

The doctor cleared his throat. "I don't think I need to tell you that's not going to do him much good."

"You're preaching to the choir, Doc. I've tried to get him to eat better, but he basically does the opposite of whatever I tell him. He can be pretty stubborn, and everything I do or say seems to piss him off." Dean sounded angry.

"That's normal, too, Dean. Sometimes the people that love them the most are the ones that bear the brunt of their angst. It'll pass. As I said, just give him time."

Again, Dean was silent.

"I'll instruct the nurse on duty to start him on Endep as long as Sam's on board with it. We'll see how he does on it."

"Thanks, Doc."

When the doctor left, Sam could hear Dean settle himself into the chair that was sitting by the window. It was evening, now, and Sam wondered if Dean would stay the night as he had the many nights Sam had been in the hospital and even a few nights when Sam had been in rehab. There was a difference this time, though. Normally, Dean would have pulled the chair close to Sam's bed. He would have rubbed Sam's shoulder to comfort him, to let Sam know that he was near and that Sam was safe.

This time, however, Dean kept his distance. His big brother was still watching over him, but Sam knew that it was only out of duty. It was only because it had been engrained in Dean by their dad to watch out for Sam at all costs. Sam had always known this, but he had never felt like a burden before. The rift between them was palpable, now, and Sam knew that he was just another job for Dean, Dean's third shift in addition to his job as a mechanic during the day and his job as a bartender in the evening. Sam knew he was a drain on his brother, and it was just one more thing to fuel his despair.

Each day, he hated himself and what he'd become more and more, but he couldn't find a way out. Part of him wanted the gruff love and comfort that Dean had always readily given, but part of him was enraged that he needed it. His anger was the only thing he had left that made him feel like a man, and the thought of letting go of it and crying like a baby in his brother's arms was unthinkable. So, instead, he pushed Dean away, and like some dumb animal that didn't know any better, Dean just kept coming back—but only out of obligation.

Sam's self-respect wasn't the only thing he'd lost that night he'd been stabbed in the back. He'd lost his brother, too.

**Five months later**

Sam felt someone shake his shoulder, but he fought to keep his hold on sleep. He couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming, but he didn't want to let it go. Plus, he felt the familiar cotton mouth and head full of cobwebs that signaled yet another hangover.

"Wake up, Sam. Get your lazy ass up." Dean was standing next to Sam's bed wearing his Firestone uniform, obviously ready for work.

Sam was lying on his stomach, and he buried his head under his pillow.

"I'm serious, Sam. You need to stay on your schedule."

"Fuck off, Dean," said Sam, not bothering to take the pillow off his head.

Dean sighed. "You got drunk again last night."

Sam felt instant anger at Dean's righteous attitude, and the residual effects of sleep began to wear off. The reality of his situation, that he couldn't just jump out of bed and go for a run, that he couldn't feel or move his legs, hit him like a ton of bricks, just like it had every morning for the eleven and a half months since his injury. He took the pillow off his head, pulled the sheet and coverlet off of him, and pushed himself onto his back so he could see Dean better, glad that he was wearing sweat pants so Dean wouldn't see his worthless, atrophied legs. "So what if I had a few beers. It's none of your fucking business."

Dean rubbed his mouth with his fingers, an unconscious gesture of distress that he'd always had. He looked as if he was trying to be patient and said calmly, "It's my business if you put yourself in danger. It wasn't just a few beers. You were wasted to the point that you could fall during a transfer. You've been drinking way more than you ever did before your injury, and you know alcohol can enhance the sedative effect of your antidepressant; plus, it keeps it from working."

_News flash. It never has really worked, although it does make me feel like a zombie from time to time._ Sam gave an ironic snort. "You sound like you've got a stick up your ass, Dean. If I want a beer, I'm gonna have a beer."

"Look, I know you're going through a tough time right now, but—"

"You don't have a clue what I'm going through!" Sam felt a cold rage grow from his chest and slowly spread through his body. "Do you have to dig the crap out of your own ass every other day, Dean? Do you have to stick a catheter up your penis—your penis that you _can't feel—_every five hours to make yourself pee? Do you look at a hot, beautiful girl and realize you'll never have an orgasm again?"

Dean stood there, frozen.

"No. I didn't think so," said Sam with sarcastic venom. "I've been a good boy, Dean, since I finally got rid of that fucking pressure sore on my ass. I make sure I eat enough food and the right foods and get enough fluids so that my bowel and bladder programs don't get screwed up. I check every inch of the flaccid, useless, numb lower half of my body _every day_ now so I won't have to spend another five months waiting for a damn pressure sore to heal again. I do my passive range of motion exercises on my legs every day so I don't get joint contractures. I deal with the phantom, excruciating, burning pain in them that the painkiller doesn't even take the edge off of sometimes, and I deal with the spasms that sometimes make it seem like my legs are possessed by a demon, even though I take medicine for that, too. Should I go on?"

Dean didn't answer.

He gave Dean a challenging, hard stare. "Should I really have to justify it if I want to get rip-roaring drunk every now and then or every goddamn night, if I feel like it?"

Dean looked toward the window and swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice sounded thick. "I'm sorry. It should have been me. If I could switch places with you, I would."

Sam scoffed. "Thanks. That makes me feel so much better, but I don't need a fucking martyr."

Dean looked at him, raw emotion on his features. "I don't know what to say to you anymore, Sam."

"Then don't say anything." Sam sat himself up, pulled himself to the edge of the bed, and in one swift motion transferred himself to his wheelchair, which was always sitting next to the bed. As he placed his bare, unfeeling feet on the footplate, he said, "Go to work. You're gonna be late." He then wheeled himself past Dean and made his way into his geriatric-style bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

He sensed, even though he couldn't hear him, that Dean was still standing by the bed. _Just fuck off, Dean._

He took out a clean catheter from under the sink and went through the procedure to empty his bladder, cleaning the cath once he was finished. After he put it back in its place under the sink, he grabbed his not-so-secret stash of Jack Daniel's whiskey, which he also kept under the sink, and took several sips, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. He needed a little hair of the dog to take the edge off his hangover. His friend Jack had become a permanent part of his morning routine.

Once he started to feel a buzz, he put the fifth back under the sink, brushed his teeth, took his meds, and then started running the water for his shower. _Halle-fucking-lujah_, he thought darkly. At least he didn't have to go butt spelunking this morning.

He took an extra-long shower, using all the hot water. Once he was done, he dried himself off with a towel that he always left folded on the side of the tub. Then he slid his wet, numb butt along the surface of the shower chair to the edge of the tub, put his towel in the seat of his wheelchair to keep the cushion dry, and started to transfer himself to his chair. He was feeling pretty good. The cocktail of meds mixing with the whiskey made him feel relaxed and the closest he ever got to happy these days.

And then he fell.

He had grabbed the titanium frame of his chair as he always did, but his still-damp hand slipped, and that was all it took. His shoulder and head hit the hard tile of the floor with a heavy thud, and sharp, nauseating pain shot through him. He tried to summon the strength to yell for Dean, but in his heart he already knew his brother would be gone, and he couldn't take a deep enough breath to yell. His last thought before losing consciousness was that he hoped Dean would decide to come home for lunch, because eight hours would be a long time to be stuck there naked on the cold floor.

_**TBC**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews and encouragement. This fic is difficult to write and requires a lot of research, so please keep those reviews coming. They make all the work worthwhile!**

**Disclaimer: Forgot to do this last chapter, so here goes: I own nothing of Supernatural. It's all Eric Kripke and his bunch. I'm not claiming any of it or making any money off of it. All my OCs are fictional, and any similarities to real people is purely coincidental. Hope that covers it!**

**XXXXXXXX**

**Chapter 2**

"Open your eyes, Sammy," said a smooth, unfamiliar voice.

_Who said that?_ thought Sam through the heavy ache in his head. It definitely wasn't Dean. Dean would be freaking out if he'd found Sam lying on the floor.

Sam could feel the cold tile of the bathroom flooring underneath his left palm, his right cheek, and his right ribs. He felt bruised and battered in all those areas, and his right shoulder hurt like a bitch, like it might be dislocated.

"Come on, Sammy. I'm here to help you." The voice kind of sounded like a reproachful used-car salesman.

"It's Sam."

The voice chuckled.

Slowly, Sam blinked his eyes open, and the bright light of the bathroom caused a sharp pain to stab into his head. He grimaced and slammed his eyes shut, fighting a wave of nausea.

The strange voice tsked and then said in sympathy, "Ouch. Light sensitivity, huh? Looks like you might have a concussion there, Sam. Here, I'll turn out this overhead light and just leave the mirror light on so it won't be so bright."

Sam heard the clicking of light switches and tentatively opened his eyes again. The pain in his head was still there, but it wasn't as excruciating in the dimmer room. Slowly, he moved his left arm to try to lift himself a little bit, but even that minor movement jarred his injured shoulder, and he grunted in pain. His shoulder reacted to every movement he made, and yet he couldn't feel his right arm and prayed that it had just gone to sleep pinned under him. He had the scary thought that he might have somehow further damaged his spine, and the possibility that one of his arms might be paralyzed was terrifying. It was hard to take a deep breath, and he fought to stave off panic, wondering how long he had been out of it.

He couldn't see his legs and had no idea where the lower half of his body was, but his upper body felt twisted, and he guessed his legs might still be half in the tub. He was fucked.

And then the stranger crouched down on the floor to eye level with Sam, cheek touching the floor in an almost childlike way, and Sam remembered that he wasn't alone. He knew he should be alarmed that a stranger had somehow gotten into the apartment and, worse, was seeing him naked, but all he felt was relief that maybe he wouldn't be stuck there until Dean came home after all.

It was a man in his forties with strange blue eyes and a deep dimple in his chin. He was smiling. "You've gotten yourself into quite a predicament here. Let me help you."

Before Sam even comprehended what the man was doing, the stranger lifted him up by his waist with hardly any effort, as if barely even touching him—none too careful of Sam's injuries—and dumped him in his wheelchair, throwing a towel over his naked lower half.

Sam reeled from the pain of his pounding head and wrenched shoulder, holding his numb right arm against his side, and fought nausea again as the room spun and he saw black spots before his eyes. It was all he could do to remain balanced upright in his chair, and this was one of the rare times he wished he had a wheelchair with armrests so he would have something to hold onto.

The man clapped his hands together in a job-well-done kind of way and said, "All right, Sam. Now that we have you up and at 'em, we have some things to discuss."

Still trying to keep from passing out, Sam winced as a wave of pain washed through him. He swallowed and said weakly, "Who the hell are you?"

The man gave him a cryptic smile. "We'll get to that in a minute." He moved Sam over a little to make room and sat down on the side of the tub opposite Sam's wheelchair and crossed his legs, resting his elbows nonchalantly on his top leg. He was wearing khakis, brown loafers, and a light-weight, zip-up jacket. "So, tell me, Sammy. How's life as a cripple?"

Instant anger pulsed through Sam in time with his aching head and shoulder, making him short of breath. Almost a year out from his injury, and no one had ever called him a cripple to his face. It pissed him off, even if it was true. "Fuck you."

"Ooh, such hostility. I'll take that to mean you're a little unhappy with your current situation."

Obviously, this guy knew who Sam was, and he couldn't be human, if the way he'd effortlessly hoisted Sam back into his chair was any indication. He'd lifted Sam's six-four frame as if he were light as a feather. "_What_ are you?" questioned Sam in between pained breaths.

The man held out a hand to shake and said, "Azazel at your service."

As if Sam was in any condition to shake hands. He could barely hold his head up. He looked at the proffered hand with weary disdain. The name meant nothing to him.

There was a moment of tense silence, and then Azazel withdrew his hand and gave Sam a sly look. "What if I told you I could get you out of that wheelchair, Sam?"

Sam eyed the man warily and tried to hide how just the mere suggestion of getting out of his wheelchair made him emotional, made his heart beat faster.

"What if I could get you back to the way you were before that nasty poltergeist ruined your life? What if I could get you back to that athletic, hunk o' burnin' love you used to be?"

Sam was tempted to tell the man to sign him up and ask no other questions, but he knew there had to be a catch. Was this a crossroads demon, even though Sam hadn't summoned him? Sam remained silent as another stabbing pain radiated through his shoulder and his now-tingling right arm, and he was relieved that, at least, the feeling was coming back into his arm.

The man rubbed his hands together, almost gleeful. "So what do you say, Sammy? You ready to get out of that chair?"

God, was he ever ready. He could feel his body tense, could feel his head and shoulder hurting even more because of it, and he exhaled a shaky breath, trying to force himself to relax and stay calm.

"Don't you want your muscular, powerful legs back? Aren't you tired of these skinny, useless legs you have now? They're only going to shrink more, you know? Don't you want to be whole again?"

Sam's throat felt thick, and he swallowed convulsively. "What do you want in return?"

Azazel smiled again. "Nothing you weren't already meant to do, Sammy. You're one of the special children—my favorite. You were on the path to greatness until," he made a gesture indicating Sam and the wheelchair, "this happened, but it's nothing that can't be fixed."

Sam hardened his jaw. "What are you talking about?"

"The visions you had before your injury, the spurt of telekinesis, they were just the beginning, Sam. You had so much potential. You _still _have so much potential. You were stronger than the others." His eyes gleamed with a fanatical light. "I want you to lead a demon army. I want you to help me free Lucifer—the devil—from his cage." The demon's eyes suddenly turned a bright, sulfuric yellow. "I want you to do what you were destined to do."

Sam was shocked at first, and then his gut knotted with rage and hatred. It was the Yellow-Eyed Demon. "You bastard! You killed my mom and Jessica. You're the reason my dad is dead!"

The demon gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry about that, but it had to be done. They were interfering with the plan."

"I'm gonna kill you, you fucking dick. I'm gonna send you to the foulest level of hell!"

The Yellow-Eyed Demon gave him a mock look of hurt. "Now, is that any way to talk to the guy that's gonna give you your legs back?"

Sam wished with every fiber of his being that he had the Colt right now, but he knew Dean had hidden it somewhere safe. Up until now, Sam had never bothered to ask where Dean had put it, not caring anymore. Unable to hunt, Sam had given up on his desire to avenge Jessica's death, had thought it would be impossible to continue the hunt for Yellow Eyes when he was a useless cripple. But now that the demon was standing right in front of him, Sam's desire for revenge had been rekindled with brutal force. He wanted to blow this fucking thing that had ruined his family and his life to kingdom come. With lethal calm, he said, "I don't want anything from you except your head on a platter."

The demon raised his brows. "You sure about that, Sammy? You, Bobby, and Dean have been researching a cure for a year now, and what have you come up with? Nada. You're going to be in that chair for the rest of your life if you don't take this deal."

Sam closed his eyes, the magnitude of what he was giving up hitting him full force, causing his chest to tighten. He wanted more than anything to be whole again, but the consequences were too dire, the number of people it would hurt too huge to even fathom. No matter how badly he wanted to walk again, he couldn't ally himself with this evil in front of him, the thing his father had spent his whole life trying to kill, the thing that had killed Jessica, the girl Sam had wanted to marry. Gritting his teeth, he said with bitter revulsion, "I'm sure. I'll never take anything from you, and I'm sure as hell not gonna help you free the devil."

The demon stood and gave Sam a look of regret. "I think I should have sent one of my minions to you instead. I know what you've been thinking, what you've been feeling. If I were a run-of-the-mill crossroads demon, I think you'd take the deal in a heartbeat."

Sam's blood ran cold at the realization that the demon had guessed his darkest, most private thoughts.

Yellow Eyes raised his index finger and wagged it as if Sam were a naughty little boy. "Never say never, Sammy. I tell you what. I'll come back in a few weeks and see how you're doing. I have a feeling you just might change your mind."

"Fuck you. I'm not gonna change my mind. If you come back, I'll be ready. I'll kill you."

Yellow Eyes sighed. "So stubborn, but such a good trait in a great general." He walked around behind Sam's wheelchair and bent down to say in Sam's ear, "Sorry about this, Sam, but we don't want Dean asking questions about how you got yourself back into this chair with only one usable arm."

Suddenly, Sam felt himself lifted from his chair, the towel that had been covering him falling to the floor, but the demon wasn't physically touching him. Sam seemed to be floating over the floor, and then a split second later, he felt himself falling. On instinct, he reached out with his right arm and felt his already-injured shoulder jarred when his right hand met the floor. He could feel his upper arm jam up into his shoulder socket. A sharp, cracking agony blazed through his shoulder and arm and radiated throughout the rest of his upper body, and then his head hit the floor again, hard. He saw stars and was on the brink of oblivion.

"Don't worry, Sam," Yellow Eyes said in mock assurance. "I have it on good authority that Dean will be home for lunch. That's only two more hours."

The demon's brown loafers were in Sam's line of sight, and then they were gone in an instant, leaving Sam alone, cold, helpless, and in excruciating pain.

It was a relief when the darkness finally claimed him yet again.

**XXXXXXXX**

Dean opened the front door of the apartment and stepped into the quiet living room. It was his lunch hour from the auto shop, and he had wanted to come home and check on Sam. He'd had a bad feeling all morning for some reason and was hardly able to wait until his lunch hour. He'd tried to call Sam around ten-thirty, but Sam hadn't answered. Of course, Sam didn't answer a lot of times when he saw Dean's number on the caller ID.

The apartment was too quiet, and the hairs on the back of Dean's neck prickled, his hunting instincts kicking in even though he hadn't been on a hunt since Sam had been hurt. Why wasn't Sam in here watching TV? That and researching a cure for his SCI on the computer were the only things that Sam had any interest in anymore, and he could almost always be found doing one of those two things, usually not even bothering to look up and acknowledge when Dean walked through the door.

It was painful on a deeper level than Dean would have ever thought existed within him, the way Sam had withdrawn from him. His little brother hated and resented any effort Dean made to reach out to him or help him, and Dean didn't know what to do. Sam kept sinking deeper into depression and bitterness and had been drinking heavily for about a month, now. Dean had smelled the whiskey on Sam in the mornings and knew that his brother's drinking wasn't just confined to the evenings. He worried that the alcohol and the drugs Sam had to take were a dangerous mix, but there was nothing he could do aside from forcing Sam to stop drinking by taking the alcohol away. He hadn't been able to make himself do that yet, hadn't wanted to make Sam feel like a child, but if Sam kept up the excessive drinking, Dean would have to take action.

His once level-headed, smart, emo little brother had morphed into a morose, hateful, self-pitying stranger that Dean didn't know. He tried to be understanding. God knew if he were in Sam's position, he'd be angry as hell. He detested the fact that Sam was suffering and there was nothing he could do to fix it.

A "normal" cure for Sam was out of the question, but it was frustrating that they'd come up with bupkis from the supernatural world, too. Dean had been sure they would find something, but so far nothing had been uncovered except for dealings with demons, which he didn't think even the new, pissed-off Sam would contemplate.

Dean checked in the kitchen, and there was no Sam, no signs that any lunch had been made. "Sam?" he called out, but there was no answer.

It was rare that Sam left the apartment and ventured out on his own. He had refused to let Dean fit the Impala with hand controls and took the bus on the unusual occasions that he did go out. Dean knew that Sam hated riding the bus, though, because he hated that people sometimes stared or just randomly started talking to him when they would never have noticed him before the wheelchair.

"Sam?" called Dean again, louder this time.

Still no answer.

The door to Sam's room was open. Clothes were discarded on the floor, and the bed was unmade as usual—yet another sign of how his once compulsively neat brother had changed. The door to Sam's bathroom was closed.

Dean walked over and knocked on the door. "Sam, you in there?"

No response.

"Sammy?"

Still not hearing anything, he was hesitant to open the door. Sam would be furious if everything was fine and Dean barged in on him in the bathroom. Sam was extremely private about it all, and Dean understood why and tried to respect Sam's right to a little dignity. "Sam?" he tried again.

This time, he heard a faint moan behind the door.

His pulse quickened, and he opened the door. At the sight of his brother, his heart almost stopped. "Sammy!"

Sam was lying on the floor on his right side, naked, his left hand weakly moving along the floor tiles. He had obviously fallen either getting into or out of the shower, although the wheelchair was at an odd angle far away from the tub.

Dean flew to Sam's side and brushed the hair out of Sam's face. "Sammy?" he breathed.

Sam's eyes fluttered open halfway, and the motion of his left hand stopped. "D'n?" he slurred, his voice barely audible.

Dean put his hand gently on Sam's left shoulder and could feel how icy cold Sam's skin was. "I'm here, Sammy. You're gonna be okay." Dean could see that Sam's right shoulder was grotesquely swollen, even though Sam was lying on it.

"Hurts," Sam mumbled, closing his eyes.

"I know, man. I'm gonna get you some help." Dean hastily pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his black work pants and dialed 911, calling for an ambulance.

Sam looked way too pale, and Dean's hands started shaking. He wanted to turn Sam over but was afraid to move him. He couldn't afford to risk injuring him further. He could at least try to warm him up, though, so he grabbed a couple of large bath towels from a shelf along the wall. It was then that he noticed the puddle of urine near Sam's hip, and his heart sank. Sam seemed unaware of what had happened, and Dean hoped he wouldn't notice. It was nothing to be ashamed of, but he knew Sam would be mortified anyway. Dean quickly grabbed another smaller towel, wiped up the mess without a word, and then covered Sam's body with the larger bath towels.

Eyes still closed, Sam said, "You mad?" He sounded like he was eight years old.

"It was an accident. Shit happens."

"Shouldn't have happened." Sam winced. "'m a friggin' idiot."

"So what else is new?"

A faint dimple appeared on Sam's cheek, despite the pain he was in, and then his face morphed into a grimace. "'m fucked."

"It's gonna be okay."

"'m sorry, D'n," said Sam, and a tear slid down his cheek.

Dean's own eyes burned. He'd never seen his brother look more dejected and vulnerable. He squeezed Sam's left forearm in reassurance. "Nothing to be sorry for."

Sam was quiet, and Dean was afraid he'd passed out. He lightly tapped Sam's cheek with his fingers. "You still with me, Sammy?"

Sam mumbled an incoherent response.

Dean rubbed Sam's good shoulder. "Stay with me, Sam. The EMTs will be here in a second."

But Sam's body suddenly went lax, and he lost consciousness.

**XXXXXXXX**

Several hours later, Sam was settled in a bed in the ICU doped up with painkillers and who knew what else, and Dr. Salazar, the chief resident at the hospital, was once again Sam's doctor.

They were standing outside the observation window of Sam's room, and Dean could see Sam sleeping peacefully through the glass.

There was a younger, blond man who looked to be in his late thirties with Dr. Salazar. "Dean," Dr. Salazar was saying, "let me introduce you quickly to Dr. James Ogden."

The younger doctor stuck out his hand, and Dean shook it politely.

"He's an excellent orthopedic surgeon," Dr. Salazar went on, "and he's going to be doing the surgery on Sam's shoulder."

Dean tensed. "Sam needs surgery?"

Dr. Salazar looked sympathetic. "I'm afraid so. I'll let James explain everything to you and Sam in a few minutes, but I'd like to go over a few things myself, first."

Dean gave a short nod.

"We've got Sam on an anti-inflammatory drug to reduce the swelling in his shoulder, and we're keeping him in the ICU for at least 24 hours for observation because of his concussion. He took a pretty hard knock to the head."

"Is he gonna be okay?"

Dr. Salazar nodded. "The concussion is a Grade 3, meaning he lost consciousness, is disoriented, and he couldn't remember what happened to him. I mean, he knows he fell getting out of the shower, but I think that's more a deduction of the circumstances rather than an actual memory. He's been nauseous, and he's got a hell of a headache and some dizziness, too. The pain meds he's on for his shoulder will also help with his headache. The good news is the MRI of his brain showed only a small amount of edema, which is to be expected, and no bleeding, so hopefully rest and sleep is all he needs for a full recovery."

Dean blew out a relieved breath.

The doctor frowned. "I'd really like to know exactly what happened in that fall, though, because the severity of his injuries, especially to his shoulder, are not consistent with the distance he would have fallen from the shower chair. He also has some bruised ribs, so we've got him on oxygen to help make breathing easier."

"What exactly do you mean about the severity of his injuries?" asked Dean.

"Well, it could just be that he was somehow able to get himself up and then fell again, since he has two pretty big goose eggs on his head, but I don't see how he could have lifted himself high enough to have fractured his shoulder like he did."

Dean wanted more time to ponder what Dr. Salazar had said about the fall, but he was horrified by what the doctor had said about Sam's shoulder. "He has a fractured _shoulder_?" said Dean in disbelief. "I never even knew that was possible."

Dr. Salazar furrowed his brow in sympathy. "It's pretty serious, Dean, but I think it's best if I allow Dr. Ogden to explain everything. Let's go in and see if Sam feels up to having a talk."

The two doctors and Dean filed into Sam's room and surrounded Sam's bed.

Dean looked at Dr. Salazar, and the grey-haired doctor nodded toward Sam and said, "Go ahead."

Dean took in the state his brother was in. Sam's bed was inclined to a thirty-degree angle, and his head was tilted a little to his left, oxygen cannula in place in his nose. He had an IV in the back of his left hand and one on the inside of his left elbow.

Dean noted they hadn't put in a PICC line, so he hoped that meant that Sam wouldn't be in the hospital for an extended period of time.

There was a pulse ox clip on the middle finger of Sam's left hand, and his torso was uncovered. ECG pads were stuck to his chest, and leads from the pads lead to the heart-rate monitor.

Dean was relieved to hear the steady beep and see that the rhythm was normal. He'd learned after Sam's SCI what the various monitors in the ICU meant and what to look for.

Sam's right shoulder and arm were supported a little bit by a pillow placed next to his side, and his right arm had been placed in an immobilizer sling. To Dean, Sam's shoulder still looked hideously swollen. Mottled, reddish-purple bruising on Sam's shoulder and ribs, at least the parts Dean could see that weren't obscured by the immobilizer, made Dean want to cringe in sympathy.

Sam's dark-brown hair had always been too long, but since the stabbing, he'd been even more lax—or just wanted to annoy Dean—and had let it grow even longer. His bangs had grown past his eyes, and Sam wore them brushed back out of his face. The look made him seem older somehow. Of course, it could be that the hell of this last year had aged him, too. Whatever the cause, Dean's once sensitive, compassionate little brother had grown world-weary and jaded.

Dean put a hand on Sam's left forearm, which was resting by his side, and squeezed. "Sammy?"

Sam's eyes rolled under his eyelids.

"Sammy, can you wake up for us?"

Sam's lashes fluttered slightly, and his forehead creased a little.

"Come on, Sam. Wake up."

Finally, Sam opened his eyes all the way. He didn't seem to be in pain, but the glassy look he had attested to the fact that he was getting the good stuff for a painkiller.

"How are you feeling, Sam?" asked Dr. Salazar.

Sam's eyes flicked over to the older doctor, and the wrinkles in Sam's brow deepened. "'m fine," he said weakly.

"Are you comfortable?"

Sam blinked and then gave a tired nod.

"As you know, Sam, I'm Dr. Salazar, and this is Dr. James Ogden."

Dr. Ogden nodded in acknowledgment.

"Dr. Ogden is an orthopedic surgeon who specializes in shoulders. He's here to discuss your injury. Do you feel like talking?"

Sam blinked slowly, taking in the orthopedic surgeon, and closed his eyes for a moment. Finally, he exhaled and said, "Yeah." Then his face took on a worried, pained expression. A severe shoulder injury would make things a hell of a lot harder for a person with paraplegia, and it was obvious Sam was all too aware of that, despite the drowsiness caused by the concussion and painkiller.

Dean squeezed Sam's good shoulder in a show of support, trying to tell him without words that they'd get through it.

For once, Sam didn't stiffen or shake Dean off like he had pretty much since the day he'd been told he would never walk again. He seemed to relax into Dean's touch, but he was pretty out of it, so Dean tried not to make too much of it, tried not to hope that it was a glimpse of the old Sam.

Dr. Ogden cleared his throat and moved over closer to Sam, opposite Dean. He had a large, Manilla envelope containing some x-rays and a computer-generated picture, which Dean assumed was the CT Scan. "All right, Sam," said the young doctor, "The scan and x-rays of your shoulder show that you have a three-part fracture of the proximal humerus. As you can see here," he pointed to one of the x-rays, "there are fracture lines and angulation along the epiphyseal lines or bone growth plates of the humeral head, the greater tuberosity, and the lesser tuberosity. Here on the CT Scan, you can see that there's a tear in the rotator cuff, too." He looked up from the scan to make sure Sam was still with him.

Sam's lids looked heavy, but he seemed to be paying attention.

"To put it into English," Dr. Ogden continued, "you have a severely fractured shoulder and some minor soft tissue damage. The good news is that it can be fixed with surgery and physical therapy."

Dean felt instant relief.

Sam, however, seemed to be reserving judgment until the doctor finished. In a quiet, tired voice, he asked, "What's involved in the surgery?"

"Since you are young and healthy, I'm recommending open reduction with internal fixation. Basically all that means is that I would go in and insert some screws, plates, and sutures or wires and sew everything back together. If the hardware ever starts to bother you, once the bone has grown back together, we can always go back in and remove it. However, if you don't have a problem with it, it can just be left in there.

"Post op stay is usually two to five days, but given that you have a pretty severe concussion and, also, the issue of your paralysis, Dr. Salazar and I will probably recommend that you stay five to seven days, if your insurance will allow it."

Sam's jaw tensed, and he looked toward the window, not saying anything.

"You'll be given prophylactic or preventative antibiotics intravenously for the first forty-eight hours after surgery."

Sam frowned. "How long is the rehab period?"

Dr. Ogden sighed. "That's the not-so-good news. I know that since you use a wheelchair, this is going to be hard on you. The first three to four weeks, you'll be wearing a shoulder immobilizer with a sling and swath that will keep your right arm absolutely still, similar to what you have on now but more heavy-duty. For an additional two to three weeks, you'll wear just a normal sling. After that, depending on how your therapy goes, you're looking at another seven weeks to two months, and it could be even longer to get back to where your shoulder can withstand transfers to and from your wheelchair."

Sam went pale, and he looked away again.

Dr. Salazar, understanding what this all meant to Sam, tried to reassure him. "It's not as bad as it sounds, son. If you'd like, I can give you a prescription for an electric wheelchair until you are out of the regular sling, and after that, you should be able to propel yourself again in your manual chair, unless it's over rough terrain or a steep incline.

"You will need help with your bowel program and your catheter until you are out of the immobilizer, but, hopefully, you will only have that for three weeks, and one week of that will pretty much be post op here in the hospital, anyway. If it makes you more comfortable, we can leave an indwelling cath in for those weeks your arm will be immobile, and then someone would only have to help you empty a leg bag."

Sam went even paler, and he closed his eyes as if completely humiliated.

Sensing Sam's distress, Dean said, "We can deal with that later," effectively ending the subject.

Dr. Salazar nodded, oblivious to the embarrassment he had caused Sam. "As for transfers, you'll have to use a transfer board again until you're able to do it yourself, even if Dean or someone else who is pretty strong is helping you. You can't take any chances that you might reinjure that shoulder while it is healing. Aside from those issues, though, you should still be able to be fairly independent. The first weeks will be the hardest."

Dean's mind began to reel as he thought of the implications of it all, not only for Sam but for himself. How was he going to take care of Sam during the day? He wouldn't be able to take much time off work for this because he'd already taken a lot of time when Sam had been on bed rest for the pressure ulcer. Although he would have rather worked for a mom-and-pop garage, Dean had intentionally chosen to work for Firestone because he'd wanted the benefits that came with a large, commercial company. As a result, he had good insurance and sick leave, but even that had limits.

And then there was the issue of the evenings. Dean worked as a bartender and night manager of a bar and grill near San Diego State. Maybe he could bring Sam with him. Yeah, right. Sam would love that.

His thoughts were interrupted as Dr. Salazar said, "We can talk about this more later. I think Sam needs to rest right now."

Sam was looking a little green around the gills and was getting groggier.

"Sure," agreed Dr. Ogden. He placed a hand on Sam's leg in a comforting gesture.

Dean almost winced, hoping it wouldn't piss Sam off. The doctor obviously had forgotten that Sam couldn't feel his legs, and Sam usually hated for anyone to touch him where he had no sensation, hated the reminder.

However, Sam's only reaction was to slowly shut his eyes.

"If the swelling in your shoulder goes down enough, I'm going to schedule your surgery for tomorrow morning at eight, if you're on board with that, Sam," said Dr. Ogden.

Sam gave a faint nod.

Dr. Salazar patted Dean on the back as he walked out, and Dr. Ogden nodded politely as he followed.

After the doctors were gone, Dean, although reluctant to bring it up, said, "I think we need to call Bobby, Sam. I think we're gonna need his help, at least for the first few weeks after you get out of the hospital."

Sam opened his eyes and stared at Dean a moment, brow furrowed in that pensive, brooding way he sometimes had, and then he simply nodded, closed his eyes, and turned his head. He clenched the beige bed blanket with his left hand, one of the few parts of his body he could still move. The small gesture made it obvious that he didn't want Bobby there, but he wasn't going to fight it.

It should have been a relief to Dean that Sam had agreed so easily, but it wasn't. It was like Sam had finally broken, and there was nothing left but hollow resignation. Dean thought of what Sam would have to go through in the upcoming weeks, thought of what it would be like for him to have to rely on someone like Bobby to help with the most basic of personal needs, and Dean felt like he was betraying him.

Dean understood why Sam didn't want their old friend to help. It would be better to have a stranger around rather than someone who knew what Sam had been like before he'd been paralyzed. It would be better to have someone who would hopefully accept Sam at face value for who he was now, someone with a blank slate. No matter how much Bobby or Dean himself were willing to help, there's no way Sam would ever be comfortable with either of them doing the things Dr. Salazar had mentioned earlier, and Dean couldn't blame him.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face in frustration. What was he supposed to do, though? He was already barely making ends meet working two jobs. He couldn't afford to hire a private assistant to help Sam.

The whole situation sucked out loud.

Dean looked at Sam. The hand that had clutched the blanket earlier was lax now, and Sam's breathing was steady and even as he slept. He looked like the old Sam, just Dean's little brother, the kid who had hung on Dean's every word when they were growing up, the kid who had believed Dean could fix anything.

Dean sighed and lightly touched Sam's good arm, hating that the meager comfort was all he could offer. _I'm trying, Sammy. I'm trying._

_**TBC**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: I think I told some of you that Bobby wouldn't actually show up until later in the story. Boy, was I wrong. He demanded to be put in this chapter, so I obliged. :) Hope you like!**_

**Chapter 3**

Bobby walked down the corridor to Sam's hospital room, absently noting that this hospital smelled better than most, lacked the odors of bodily functions masked by antiseptic. Instead, it smelled sterile and sort of minty, almost like a dentist's office.

It had been five days since Sam's surgery, but Bobby'd had some loose ends to tie up before he'd been able to close up the salvage yard and make the two-day trek to San Diego. Besides, Dean had assured him that Sam wouldn't really need his help until after Sam was released from the hospital. The word was that Sam would be released either tomorrow or the next day, barring any unforeseen complications with Sam's recovery from surgery and depending on how quickly Bobby learned what he needed to know to help Sam, since he would be Sam's primary caregiver during the next two to three weeks.

Dean had called Bobby while Sam was still in surgery, reluctantly asking for Bobby's help, and Bobby had called him an idjit and told him that, of course, he would come stay with them for a few weeks while Sam was recovering. Bobby hadn't been too happy about the fact that the boys had been dealing with Sam's spinal cord injury all alone, but Dean had made it clear from the get-go that Sam was adamant Bobby not be involved. He had hinted that Sam was not dealing with things well, that he had become kind of reclusive and didn't want anything to do with anyone they had known before he'd been hurt.

Bobby would be lying to himself if he didn't admit the exclusion had hurt his feelings a bit, but he wasn't in Sam's shoes, and the least he could do was respect the boy's wishes. He loved both Sam and Dean like sons, but he knew both boys were fiercely strong, stubborn, and independent, and he had a good idea how devastating the injury had been for Sam. Bobby'd had friends in 'Nam that had been paralyzed and knew the hell they had gone through trying to adjust. He hadn't wanted to make things worse for Sam by sticking his nose where it didn't belong. He might love Sam like he was his own, but he would never be his father and didn't feel like it was his place to force the issue.

When he reached Sam's door, it was slightly ajar, and he could hear voices. He paused for a moment before knocking, unsure of how he would be received by Sam and trying to steel himself for Sam's sake. He sure as hell didn't want Sam to see any pity on his face.

He had gotten to San Diego fairly late last night, and Dean had given him a brief rundown of what was to be expected. Sam had physical therapy five times a day for thirty minutes starting at nine in the morning, which would be continued at home once he was released from the hospital. In addition, he would have physical therapy sessions at the rehab facility of the hospital twice a week with his physical therapist. Dean had asked Bobby to come to the hospital this morning a little before nine for Sam's first PT session of the day so Bobby could learn how to do Sam's passive range of motion exercises.

Sam would already be dressed by the time Bobby got there this morning, but, at some point, either later today or tomorrow morning, Bobby would have to learn how to help Sam with his personal needs and help him get his clothes on and off. It was this part that Bobby was the most nervous about, not because he minded, but because he knew that it would be the hardest part for Sam. Dean had warned him that Sam was very private about the way his personal needs had changed and that he was embarrassed to have to have Bobby's help. It made Bobby's heart hurt to know that Sam was ashamed of something that wasn't his fault, something that was just a fact of life, just a different way of doing things, but Bobby understood. He just hoped that someday Sam would be able to come to terms with it.

Bobby took a deep breath to fortify himself. _Here goes nothin', _he thought, and he tentatively knocked on the door.

"Come in," called Dean.

Bobby walked in to find Sam lying on his back at a slight incline on his bed. The covers were pulled off of him, and he was wearing a white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, white socks on his feet, and his legs were neatly, too perfectly in place on the bed—too inert. Bobby tried not to stare at Sam's legs and instead forced his eyes to Sam's face, noting the utter lack of any lingering remnants of adolescence that Bobby had sometimes glimpsed the last few times he'd been around Sam. The planes of Sam's face were hard, a man's face. His hair had always been a little too long, but now it was even longer and gave him an air of irreverence, as if he just didn't give a shit anymore.

Bobby nodded in greeting. It had been a year since he'd seen Sam, and in other circumstances, he would have given the boy a hearty, gruff hug. Instead, he tried to keep the emotion from his voice. "Sam, it's good to see you, kid."

Sam swallowed, his expression unreadable. "Hey, Bobby," he said quietly.

"Hey, Bobby," echoed Dean with a nervous smile. "We just took off the immobilizer to get started." He indicated an elaborate-looking, flesh-colored sling lying on Sam's overbed table with several straps and pieces to it that Bobby imagined made Sam feel trussed up like a turkey when he had it on.

There was a petite, dark-haired woman with a trim, athletic build in her late thirties to Dean's right. She was wearing a light-blue polo shirt with the hospital's logo on it and khaki work slacks.

"This is Karen," said Dean. "She's Sam's physical therapist. She's watching me to make sure I'm doing Sam's exercises the right way."

Karen smiled politely and said, "Hi, Bobby. Nice to meet you."

Bobby tapped the bill of his trucker hat and nodded. "Likewise."

Dean cleared his throat. "So, uh, Bobby, you wanna just watch during this session, and then maybe in one of the later sessions, you can, uh, try it yourself?"

"Sure," said Bobby, although it all made him a little uneasy, just jumping into things so abruptly. He felt like there was a step missing, like maybe he should have talked things over privately with Sam first. It would be an understatement to say that a lot had happened in the past year, and Bobby felt like he had stepped through a wormhole in time. It was like he had gone to bed and everything was fine, only to wake up and find one of his boys changed irrevocably in the blink of an eye.

Sam was staring at the ceiling, seeming to not have much interest in what was happening around him.

Karen gave a short, encouraging nod to Dean. "Okay. You know the drill, Dean. You're going to start with forward elevation to ninety degrees, and then we'll do thirty-degree external rotation and some internal rotation until Sam cries uncle." She smiled teasingly at Sam.

Sam ignored her, continuing his inspection of the ceiling.

Dean's eyes shifted to Bobby for a second, and then he returned his focus to Sam. He carefully picked up Sam's right arm, which had been resting across Sam's stomach, and straightened it out. Then he slowly began to lift it until it was at a ninety-degree angle to Sam's torso.

Sam's jaw tensed, and he closed his eyes.

"How are you doing, Sam?" asked Karen.

He opened his eyes and exhaled. "Fine."

_Standard Winchester reply_, thought Bobby. It was clear the kid was hurting.

"I'm sorry, man," said Dean, sensing Sam's discomfort and wincing as if the exercise hurt him as much as it did Sam.

Dean had looked tired and haggard when Bobby had first seen him last night, and a good night's sleep hadn't really done much to change that.

"No pain, no gain, Sam," said Karen in a no-nonsense, professional way. "We want it to hurt a little, but not to the point that it's excruciating. If at any time it doesn't feel right, you need to let Dean know. Okay?"

Sam nodded.

Dean gently lowered Sam's arm and then repeated the exercise several more times before moving on to the next set. Under the watchful eye of the physical therapist, Dean went through exercises manipulating Sam's elbow, wrist, and hand. Then, after he and Karen helped Sam to turn onto his left side, his back to Bobby, Dean did flexion, extension, and abduction exercises, moving Sam's right arm to the side, forward, and back.

Sam never once made a sound, but the tension in his upper body belied his discomfort. His legs, again, stayed neatly in place where Karen had placed them, slightly bent at the knees to give him more stability while lying on his side.

It was a lot of exercises to remember, and Bobby's uncertainty must have shown.

"Don't worry, Bobby," said Dean with a grin. "We'll write it down for you. I know you're getting kind of senile." It was the first glimpse of the old, cocky Dean that Bobby had seen since he arrived in town last night.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "I've forgotten more than you'll ever know, you idjit."

Dean waggled his brows at Bobby and then helped Sam roll onto his back, and Karen moved Sam's legs for him.

Sam stared at the ceiling again, disengaged.

Karen said, "All right, Sam. You ready to do the pendulum?"

"Yeah," said Sam, quiet and aloof, not looking at her.

Together, Dean and Karen helped Sam to sit up, and then Dean picked up Sam's long legs and lifted them over the side of the bed.

Bobby could see despite the sweatpants that Sam's legs had lost muscle tone, were thinner, and, again, he tried not to stare.

Karen pulled a sort of sporty-looking, black wheelchair over to the side of the bed.

The wheelchair was the first real, tangible evidence of Sam's disability, and Bobby forced an impassive expression onto his face, ignoring the sudden burn behind his eyes

There was a sleek, narrow, rectangular board made of wood sitting in the seat of the wheelchair, and the shiny surface of the board kind of reminded Bobby of a surfboard, but, of course, much smaller.

Sam's shoulders were slumped, his left arm holding his right gingerly in front of his midsection. He never once looked up to see Bobby's reaction to the wheelchair.

Dean didn't look at Bobby either, but it was obvious that he was trying to be nonchalant, trying to pretend that the sudden tension in the room wasn't so thick that it felt like they were moving through molasses.

Karen placed one end of the board on the mattress of the bed and the other end of it on the seat of the wheelchair, making a bridge between the two surfaces.

Sam carefully placed his right arm in his lap and then hooked his left arm around Dean's neck.

Dean put his hands on Sam's upper torso, and Sam flinched.

"Watch his bruised ribs, Dean," warned Karen.

Dean's head snapped up, a frown on his face, and he immediately lifted his hands away from Sam. He saw the pained expression on Sam's face and said, "I'm sorry, dude. I forgot. I'm so sorry."

Sam closed his eyes, taking in a breath. "It's fine. Let's just get this over with."

Looking guilty, Dean placed his hands lower down onto Sam's hips. "Okay. On the count of three?"

Sam gave a faint nod, and then, on the count of three, Dean and Sam worked together to lift Sam minutely in order to get his butt up on the board, Dean lifting on Sam's hips and Sam using his left arm to pull on Dean's neck. Once he was on the board, Dean pushed on Sam's hips and helped him to slide the distance into the wheelchair and then get adjusted into the seat. Once that was done, Dean lifted Sam's legs one at a time and placed Sam's feet on the footplate.

Sam leaned back a bit and gave a little sigh of relief, although a pinched line between his eyebrows indicated he was still feeling some pain. He held his right arm cradled in his left again.

"You good?" Dean asked Sam.

"Yeah," Sam answered in a flat tone.

"Good job, guys," complimented Karen. "It'll be easier once Sam's ribs aren't so sore." She looked at Bobby. "You'll have plenty of chances to practice this, Bobby, in the next few hours."

Bobby gave her a short nod and glanced at Sam, surprised at how Sam fit into his wheelchair so perfectly. It accommodated Sam's long body like a glove. He had the thought that Sam looked like he belonged in it, and then quickly admonished himself. He didn't think Sam would have appreciated the sentiment.

The sweatpant leg on Sam's left leg had gotten scrunched up a bit during the transfer, and part of a small, clear bag with fluid in it was visible, strapped to Sam's leg.

With a jolt, Bobby realized that it was a collection bag for urine, and he quickly averted his eyes back to Sam's face, hoping Sam hadn't noticed his reaction.

But he had. There was a hard set to Sam's jaw, and his eyes held Bobby's. The mixture of humiliation, despair, and bitterness were impossible to miss, and Bobby felt a chill in his belly and a tightening of his throat at the intensity of Sam's emotions.

The look Sam was giving him was full of self-contempt and held an acrid warning. It was a look that said, _You don't even know the half of it_.

For the first time, the magnitude of Sam's injury started to sink in, the stark reality of just how much Sam's life had changed, and although he knew Sam wouldn't want his pity, Bobby couldn't help but mourn all that Sam had lost.

**XXXXXXXX**

Bobby reached over and clumsily turned off the alarm on his watch, surprised that he hadn't woken up when Dean had gone into the kitchen to make coffee and eat a quick breakfast, which was Dean's usual morning routine before he went to work. All was quiet, now, so Bobby figured that Dean was already gone. It had been one of Bobby's nights last night to help turn Sam, so he supposed that, after four nights of waking up every two hours, the lack of sleep had caught up with him. At least tonight would start Dean's stretch, and Bobby would hopefully be able to sleep through the night.

He sat up, rubbed his sore back, and then swung his legs over the side of the cheap, second-hand, sofabed mattress. The damn thing was killing him, but he'd never admit that to the boys. Dean had insisted that Bobby take his bed, but Bobby had insisted right back that he would be fine sleeping on the pull-out. He wasn't about to take Dean's bed. Dean needed all the rest he could get since he was working two jobs.

They had brought Sam home from the hospital seven days ago, and this last week had been exhausting for Bobby. It had been a blur of transfers—transfers to and from the bed, transfers to and from the sofa, transfers to and from the car, transfers to and from the shower chair, and the most fun of all, transfers to and from the toilet. At least Sam was able to do his bowel program on his own—thank God he at least had one usable arm—although Bobby had to help him pull his pants down and up and make sure he had all the supplies he needed.

It was, of course, embarrassing for Sam, but, to Bobby, it was just the way things were and not that big of a deal. He'd pretty much been over it after the first day. The most disconcerting part of the whole process for Bobby was the fact that Sam had to sit in there on the toilet for at least thirty minutes, sometimes almost an hour, before he was finished.

Getting dressed, in general, took a lot longer for Sam now, and on the days he had to do his bowel program, he had to allow even more time to get ready, especially if he had a PT appointment or doctor's appointment. It was a real pain in the ass, no pun intended, for a guy who used to take twenty minutes, tops, to do the three S's. At least he didn't have to do the bowel thing every day.

Sam had also been able to go back to catheterizing himself. Since he had to take his immobilizer off to do PT, Dr. Ogden had overridden Dr. Salazar's recommendation and given Sam the okay to cath himself before he started each home session of the passive range of motion exercises. The schedule for the sessions pretty much coincided with Sam's bladder program, so as long as he had promised to use his right arm as little as possible, Dr. Ogden had agreed that it was better for Sam to gain back some of his independence.

Bobby had to help Sam very carefully transfer to the toilet and, once again, help him get his pants down, but Sam was able to do the rest while Bobby stepped outside the bathroom to give him a modicum of privacy.

It had all been daunting because Sam's extreme embarrassment and discomfort at having to have Bobby's help with so many personal things was, in turn, making Bobby edgy and uncomfortable. He felt like he was torturing the poor kid by helping him, and it made for a tense situation to say the least. Bobby had tried to cut Sam some slack, hoping that Sam would get used to things, but after a week, Sam's unease hadn't diminished, and he just seemed to be more despondent and withdrawn with each passing day.

Bobby hated the lack of control he felt, the feeling of helplessness that nothing he did could make Sam snap out of the depression he was in, no matter how much he tried to show Sam that there was nothing wrong with asking for or needing help, that Bobby didn't mind helping him, that Bobby _wanted _to help him. The kid was definitely John Winchester's son, though—proud and stubborn to the core.

Dean was gone most of the time, what with working two jobs, so Bobby and Sam were left alone together almost twenty-four/seven. The only thing Dean was really able to help with was shifting Sam's position at night so Sam wouldn't develop pressure sores, since Sam was only able to lie in basically one of two positions and couldn't really move himself. He couldn't even lie on his stomach because he had to wear the shoulder immobilizer at all times, except for when he showered or was doing therapy.

Dean and Bobby would take turns helping Sam to turn over several times a night. Bobby insisted on doing it four nights a week, and Dean took the other three. They usually did their nights in a row so they would have a few nights back-to-back of uninterrupted sleep.

The nightly ritual was, of course, the hardest on Sam, who _never_ got a full night of uninterrupted sleep, constantly being woken up to be turned over. Bobby knew it was yet another thing that made Sam feel helpless and frustrated, but the kid didn't complain. He never said much of anything.

As Bobby made his way to Sam's room, he tried to push back a feeling of dread. Today would be a doubleheader—bowel program and outing for a PT appointment. Bobby wasn't looking forward to the morose mood the pending appointment would almost certainly put Sam in. Sam hated going out of the apartment. According to Dean, he'd never gone out much before he hurt his shoulder, but now it was like pulling teeth to get Sam out of the house and somewhere on time.

The door to Sam's room was ajar, and Bobby pushed it open. Sam was on his left side, pillows behind him and in front to keep him comfortable and supported. He was facing the door, eyes wide open.

"How long you been awake, Sam? Why didn't you holler at me?"

Sam's only response was to look at some point above Bobby's head and sigh.

It was annoying that Sam didn't answer him, but Bobby let it go and walked over next to the bed. "You ready?"

There was a beat of silence before Sam said softly, "Yeah."

Bobby ignored Sam's usual morning moroseness and began the process of getting Sam out of bed. He removed the pillows from around Sam and pulled the light-weight, navy coverlet and top sheet off of him. Then he first rolled Sam onto his back, lifting and moving Sam's legs accordingly, before gently placing a hand underneath Sam in the middle of his upper back, careful not to jar his injured shoulder.

Sam's right arm was, of course, held in place close across his middle by the strappy, beige shoulder immobilizer. Bobby would be glad when Sam didn't have to wear it anymore. Of course, Sam never said anything about it, but it looked uncomfortable, too confining and constricting. Bobby didn't know how Sam managed to get any sleep at all with the thing on.

Sam hooked his left arm around Bobby's neck, and together they got Sam to a sitting position without causing him too much shoulder and rib pain. After Bobby placed Sam's legs to where they were hanging over the side of the bed, feet touching the floor, he said, "You ready for Big Bertha?"

Sam eyed the rented power wheelchair sitting next to his bed with an impassive expression, but Bobby didn't miss the faint, disdainful curve to Sam's mouth. The chair was cumbersome and bulky compared to Sam's sleek, compact manual chair, but until Sam's shoulder healed and he was able to push himself again, he was stuck with the power chair Dean had nicknamed Bertha if he wanted to be able to get around on his own. It was a hassle to transport, too, but, to Bobby, it was no more complicated than taking apart Sam's rigid-frame, manual chair to get in the car. At least they didn't have to take the wheels off of the power chair.

Sam nodded, indicating he was ready to transfer. His slightly tousled hair made him look unusually boyish, and Bobby felt a pang of nostalgia for the old Sam, the inquisitive, sensitive boy that used to spend hours poring over the books in Bobby's library.

They transferred Sam to the power chair using the ever-handy transfer board, and, using the joystick on the left side of the chair, Sam made his way to the adjoining bathroom. Bobby followed the faint electric whir of the motor.

After Sam had taken his meds and brushed his teeth, Bobby said, "You ready to pinch a loaf, kid?"

Sam gave him a funny look, as if kind of stunned.

And then it hit Bobby that that was, pretty much, exactly what Sam literally had to do to stimulate his bowel, and Bobby felt a stab of remorse for his crass words. "Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

Sam stared at him for another moment, and then his chest started to sort of rumble. He clenched his eyes closed, the corners of his mouth drawn back in what might be construed as a grin—or a grimace.

Bobby was alarmed, unsure of exactly what was happening, and then Sam drew in a deep breath, threw his head back, and began laughing out loud. It was a belly laugh, the kind of guffaw that shook the whole body, the kind of laugh that released tension. Tears ran down his face, and he held his sore ribs with his left hand.

Bobby watched, still mortified at what he'd said. He didn't know if Sam's reaction was a sign that Sam was going off the deep end or if it was just the release of a year's worth of emotional and physical pain.

After what seemed like forever, Sam's laughing slowly morphed into a few intermittent snorts, and then finally into a dimpled grin that Bobby suspected hadn't made an appearance in a very long while. Sam wiped the moisture from his face and said, "It's okay, Bobby." Another short burst of a laugh escaped him, and he winced a little. "You should see your face."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

Sam smiled. "It's okay. Really. Do you know that in a year, that's the first time anyone has made light of all this?"

Bobby was skeptical. "You've been livin' with Dean Winchester. I presume you've met."

The smile on Sam's face fell. "Dean hasn't been the same since my injury."

"Well, you ain't the most approachable guy anymore, Sam. Your angst makes Kurt Cobain look like Donny Osmond."

Sam's face grew stormy. "What do you expect, Bobby?"

"I expect you to move on, Sam. I expect you to live your life the best you can. Just because you're in that chair don't mean you're dead."

Sam's left hand fisted, and his features darkened. "I wish..." he started, but the trailed off.

"You wish what, Sam?" Bobby asked with intensity.

Sam didn't answer, but his eyes were locked on Bobby's face.

"You wish what?" Bobby persisted. He paused, and when Sam didn't answer, he said, "You wish that you were dead?"

Sam still didn't answer, but the stubborn look on his face said he wouldn't deny it.

Bobby felt a surge of anger. "You damn idjit! You think you're the only one who has to deal with this? What makes you so special? I've done the research. There's around 250,000 Americans with SCI, Sam. Eighty percent of them are men, and a lot of them are around your age. Now, I ain't saying that it's easy to adjust, but a lot of them have moved on with their lives and are _happy, _and they can do most of the things they did before they were injured."

Sam gave a derisive snort. "Yeah. Let me jump right back into hunting. I'm sure Dean would just love to have me backing him up. We'll just have to make sure when we do a salt-and-burn that the graveyard is wheelchair accessible."

Bobby ignored Sam's sarcastic comment. "It's about the choices you make, Sam. It's about not letting this beat you. I've known you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper, and I know you're strong. Put that stubborn streak of yours to good use and make a new life for yourself!"

Sam's mouth was in a tight line, and he exhaled harshly through his nose. "You don't think you're gonna find anything, do you, Bobby? You've stopped looking."

Bobby rolled his eyes, exasperated. "No. I haven't stopped looking, Sam, and I'm not gonna. But it's been a year, and we ain't found squat. In the meantime, you're sitting on your ass here feeling sorry for yourself while Dean damn near kills himself to make ends meet. For a guy who earned a full ride to Stanford, don't you think you're smart enough to find a job and take some of the load off your brother? I mean, when's the last time Dean even had a day off?"

Sam's eyes flashed with anger. "When do _I_ get a day off, Bobby? When do I get one single day where there's something that I don't have to struggle with? When do I get a day where I don't feel loopy from the antidepressant and the antispasticity med or the painkiller I take when I get the random, excruciating burning sensation in my worthless legs?

"How can I hold down a job when it's all I can do to _manage _my bodily functions? Almost everything I do has to adhere to a rigid schedule, a rigid diet, unless I want to run the risk of having an accident—which still sometimes happens, despite my best efforts—like a fucking toddler being potty trained. This broken body that I can't ever escape from is my job, now, Bobby! It saps my strength. It's like I'm climbing a ladder, trying to get out of the hole I'm in, but I can't ever reach the top. There is no end in sight!"

Sam's breathing had become harsh, and he was trembling. He swallowed convulsively and closed his eyes, fighting to get control of his emotions. Finally, his voice full of despair, he said, "I want to move on. I'm tired of being miserable all the time, but how am I supposed to ever get used to this? You've seen how I have to live, Bobby. When does it stop being a nightmare and start being a life?"

Bobby's heart bled for the kid, and he sat down on the edge of the tub so Sam wouldn't have to look up at him anymore, holding Sam's gaze with intensity. "There's a point, Sam, that everyone reaches, a tipping point, a point where a trauma ceases to be a tragedy and becomes just how things are, a point where a person gets fed up with heartache and grief and frustration and learns to accept what's happened and move on. It's why people can rebuild a town after it's been wiped out by a tornado. It's why there was the Baby Boom after the horrors of World War II. It's why," his voice faltered and he felt a stinging in his eyes, "I'm able to get out of bed each morning knowing that I killed my own wife when she was possessed by a demon."

There was no expression on Sam's face, just a tightness in his jaw.

"I'm not saying it won't leave a scar, Sam, and sometimes they're real deep. But you're—what?—twenty-four years old? You've still got a lot of life ahead of you, probably more than you ever would have if you'd kept hunting. I'm not denying you've been dealt a bad hand, but you ain't lost the game, yet."

Sam looked away from Bobby, his throat working.

"What would Jessica say if she were here, Sam? What would your _dad_ say?"

A myriad of emotions crossed Sam's features. After a moment, though, he seemed to master whatever feelings were going through his head, and his expression turned stony. "First they would be horrified, and then they would feel sorry for me, just like everyone else."

Bobby hung his head and wondered if anything he'd said to Sam had soaked in at all.

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam's anger simmered, and he gritted his teeth and looked at Dean.

Dean exhaled, clearly frustrated. "You know what Dr. O and Karen said, Sam. No transfers without the board."

"Dean, it's an easy one," he said, facing the bench seat of the booth that would be his home for the next five hours while Dean worked his shift as the evening manager and bartender for Shorty's Sports Bar and Grill. "It's stupid for you to go all the way back out to the Impala just to get the board."

"Dude, we're not taking any chances on wrenching your shoulder. Besides, you've still got bruised ribs, too. You've only been out of the hospital for a week."

Sam turned his head away, scanning the crowded restaurant. "Fine. Whatever. You're the one that's late for your shift."

"I think they'll cut me some slack," Dean said dryly.

Sam refocused his attention back to Dean. "You mean because you have to help your poor, crippled brother?"

Dean shook his head in disapproval, his jaw tense.

Sam waited to see what he would say, knowing the old Dean would have come back with some snarky remark.

Instead, Dean inhaled a deep breath, waited a moment, almost as if he was counting to ten, and said, "I meant they would cut me some slack because I'm the boss, Sam."

Sam clenched his teeth again, something he did a lot when he was around Dean. "It'll take less than a second, Dean. We don't need the fucking board."

Dean's face went neutral. "I'll be back," he said, and turned to leave before Sam could argue further.

_Dick_, thought Sam. He drew in a deep, frustrated breath and felt the pull of his sore ribs and shoulder. He tried not to think about how constricted he felt with the immobilizer holding his right arm in place, not to mention the dull, constant ache it caused in the bruised ribs it came in contact with. Hopefully, if all went well, he only had to wear it one more week, and then he could just wear a regular sling. Dr. Ogden had said Sam would be in the immobilizer three to four weeks. _Knowing my luck_, Sam thought cynically, _I'll probably have to wear it the full four weeks._

He pushed on the joystick of the power chair with his left hand to turn himself around so that he was facing out toward the restaurant, noting that a few heads furtively turned back to their meals or conversations, pretending not to have noticed him. Sam felt the familiar tightening of his gut, felt the familiar, sickening feeling that he was an object of pity, the gimp.

It was the same everywhere. People always saw the chair first and Sam second, and it was impossible to be inconspicuous. It was impossible to just be himself and not the poor bastard in the wheelchair. It was why he only ventured out of the apartment if he had to and why he must have lost his mind to have agreed to come with Dean tonight.

Shorty's was the typical college hangout place. It had cheap beer, flat-screen TVs broadcasting some sort of sport all the time, pool tables, and a variety of breaded foods and the obligatory chicken wings that were a requirement of every American sports bar. Its patrons were mostly students from nearby San Diego State University.

Sam had been to Shorty's once before with Dean for dinner, but tonight he was there for the long haul. Things had been tense between Bobby and Sam since their argument earlier that morning, and Dean must have sensed that they needed a break from each other. Dean had suggested Sam come hang out at the bar and grill for a change of scenery, and Sam had reluctantly agreed.

Sam was quickly coming to realize, though, that this option wasn't any better than staying home with Bobby would have been. He'd only been around Dean for thirty minutes, and Dean was already pissing him off. Sam was going to stake his claim in the booth and hope that Dean would be too busy to hover over him.

When Dean came back with the transfer board, it took twice as long to get Sam into the booth as it would have if they'd done it without the board, and it made Sam feel twice as conspicuous. Dean had pulled Sam's ROHO cushion that was Velcroed to the seat of the power chair out so Sam could sit on it in the booth. The ROHO helped protect Sam's skin from breakdown. The seat of the booth was kind of hard, and Sam sure as hell didn't want to take a chance on getting a pressure sore, since he would be sitting there for a while.

Dean helped Sam scoot back to where his back was against the wall so Sam could stretch his legs out across the seat of the booth, crossing Sam's left leg over his right at the ankles so his left leg wouldn't inadvertently slide off the rounded, sleek surface of the bench seat. Dean had thought to bring a pillow from home to put behind Sam's back, and Sam was grudgingly grateful, although it made him feel even more like an invalid.

Dean then got Sam's laptop out of the wheelchair backpack and found an outlet under the table of the booth to plug it in, since the battery life on the laptop was only two hours, and Sam would be camped out in the booth a lot longer than that.

Sam put the computer on his lap, and, since he couldn't feel it resting on his legs, he had the weird feeling that the laptop was floating, sort of hovering over his lap. It was disconcerting, and he thought for the millionth time that he would never get used to being paralyzed. Bobby was wrong. Sam was never going to be able to accept what had happened to him.

_I can get you out of that chair, Sam. Don't you want to be whole again?_

Azazel's words haunted Sam, and he couldn't stop thinking about them, even though he had probably been hallucinating or dreaming because of the concussion. He couldn't really remember much of what had happened the morning he fell, but he remembered clearly those words, and the demon's bright yellow eyes were seared into Sam's brain. Part of him hoped that it had all been some kind of sick dream, and part of him at least wanted the option that Yellow Eyes had offered, even though Sam knew the horrible consequences.

It had been two weeks since his shoulder injury, and the demon hadn't appeared to him again, which supported the notion that Azazel's visit hadn't been real. Still, Sam hadn't said anything to Dean or Bobby about it because the more he thought about the deal, the more tempting it was. On the off chance that Sam hadn't dreamed it all, he couldn't bring himself to burn his bridges just yet.

He knew it was wrong to even consider it, but the last two weeks had made him feel more helpless and humiliated than ever, and he had no other hope. Either way, if Yellow Eyes was real or not, Dean and Bobby didn't need to know just how desperate Sam had become. He needed to find the Colt, though, just in case Azazel really had been there and made good on his threat to come back. How was Sam supposed to look for it, though? It was hard to be discreet with only one usable arm and a power wheelchair.

It had seemed so cut-and-dried when the demon had been standing before him. The need for justice and revenge had consumed Sam, but now he was ashamed to admit to himself that he wasn't even sure he would kill Azazel if given the chance. Sam still wanted the Colt as backup, though, just the same.

"You good?" asked Dean, pulling Sam back from his dark thoughts.

"Yeah," Sam answered curtly, his already sour mood ratcheting up a notch. He turned his attention to the laptop and switched it on.

"You thirsty or hungry? I can send over a beer or somethin' and some food, if you want."

Sam felt an unreasonable surge of irritation and gave Dean an annoyed look. "It's only five, Dean. I'm a paraplegic, not an eighty-year-old. I don't usually eat dinner until seven."

"Jesus, Sam," said Dean, exasperation finally breaking through. "Excuse me for just asking if you're hungry. Stop being such a douche."

Sam glared at him and said, "Just send a waitress over. My mouth still works. I can still read a menu and order food and drinks for myself. I don't need you to do it for me."

The muscles in Dean's neck tensed, and his shoulders hunched in a belligerent stance.

Sam waited for a moment, challenging him with a look, knowing that Dean was angry but that nothing would come of it. When Dean just stood there, Sam looked down to the computer screen, ignoring the tension between the two of them, barely containing the scorn he felt for Dean's lack of spine.

Dean exhaled a harsh breath, reining in his temper, just as he always did. Changing the subject, he said, "You, uh, want me to put the chair somewhere out of the way?"

Sam nodded, still not looking up, not giving Dean's presence any significance.

He could feel Dean staring at him, and after a pause, he heard Dean's footsteps walking away. When he looked up, he saw that Dean had grabbed the push handles of the power chair and was pushing it toward a door that led to the kitchen and the back office of the restaurant.

Sam tamped down a pang of something that felt a little like guilt as his brother disappeared into the kitchen. Bobby was right. Sam sure as hell didn't make things easy for Dean. Being a jerk to him was a habit now, one that Sam found hard to break, especially since Dean never really fought back. Dean was the easiest target for Sam's ever-present rage, and Sam didn't know how to stop.

Sam surfed the web for the next hour, glancing up every once in a while. Dean was busy at the bar, and the two waitresses, Heather and TJ, who often worked the same shifts as Dean, were run ragged taking orders and carrying out food to the tables.

There was a booth full of girls drinking beer on the opposite side of the room from Sam, and one of them, a beautiful, dark-haired girl, happened to make eye contact with him.

She smiled, and Sam quickly shifted his eyes back to his laptop, pretending he hadn't seen her.

Several minutes passed, and Sam became engrossed in a web site about faith healers, so he was startled when he heard a female voice say, "Fascinating reading?"

He looked up to see the girl with the long, dark hair he'd made eye contact with earlier. She was smiling down at him, her hand on the back of the seat across the table from him. She had gorgeous blue eyes and was wearing a tight, red t-shirt and jeans that hugged her shapely body.

Sam didn't know what to say. The only girls he'd spoken to since his spinal injury were his nurses and physical therapists, and they didn't count. He'd heard all the crap the therapists and psychologists spewed about paraplegics having fulfilling, loving relationships and knew it was bullshit. What kind of woman would ever be interested in him, now? He knew the door to that part of his life had been painfully and permanently slammed shut, unless he found a cure.

He realized that his wheelchair was out of sight and that she must have gotten to Shorty's after the whole production of getting him transferred into the booth. That was the only explanation for why she would be flirting with him.

She seemed amused that Sam was at a loss for words and said, "I'm Chanel, as in Coco. Mind if I join you?" Before Sam could come up with a reason why she shouldn't, she slid into the booth across from him.

Sam would rather have been sitting across the table from Lucifer himself.

_**TBC**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

TJ pushed a strand of her mud-colored brown hair behind her ears. She was running her ass off tonight, and her annoying, baby-fine hair was coming out of it's ponytail holder. She hadn't even had two seconds to stop and fix it.

_Tip money. Tip money_. _Tip money_. She kept repeating the words to herself as she dealt with overly-friendly college guys and overly-bitchy college girls. She hated two-dollar beer night. Any beer Shorty's had on tap was two dollars, even the better stuff. The special started at four in the afternoon, and by six most of the partakers were well on their way to drunkdom.

She was at the bar, waiting for Dean to fill her latest drink order—beer, beer, and more beer—and one glass of wine. She snorted to herself. Only Chanel would order wine at a place like this. It wasn't even good wine—just some cheap crap that the owners had stuck on the menu for pretentious, stupid, wanna-be rich girls that might deign to slum it at a place like Shorty's.

TJ and Heather always drew straws to see who would have to wait on Chanel, and TJ almost always ended up drawing the short straw, as she had this evening. She had the worst luck in the world when it came to things like that. She'd begged Heather to have mercy and just start taking turns, but the usually good-natured, easy-going Heather had adamantly refused. TJ had even offered Heather a bribe in the form of a tip percentage, but Heather wouldn't go for it.

As Dean placed the drinks on TJ's round tray, he glanced over at his brother. No matter how busy Dean was, he never forgot about his brother, always keeping an eye on him. "That is so not good," said Dean, his brows drawing together in a slight frown.

TJ followed his gaze to the booth where Sam was sitting and saw Chanel in the seat across from him. Chanel said something to Sam, and Sam gave her a faint smile back that didn't quite reach his eyes.

TJ was a little surprised that Chanel had gotten a smile of any kind out of Sam. The few times TJ had been around him, he always seemed kind of surly and pissed off. For some reason, it kind of irked her that Chanel had gotten a smile out of him, even if it was a half-assed one.

TJ gave Dean a sympathetic grimace. "Looks like Chanel, as in bitch," TJ said, mocking the way Chanel always introduced herself, "has set her sights on Sam tonight."

Dean glanced at his watch. "Yeah. And it's almost time for Sam to, uh," he cleared his throat, "take a break. I need to get his wheelchair. He'll be so pissed if I bring it over there while he's talking to her, whether he likes her or not."

TJ understood. She had gotten to know Dean pretty well, since she worked almost all of her shifts with him. He mostly talked about how smart Sam was and how Sam had gotten a full ride to Stanford, but there was sadness in his eyes a lot of times when he talked about Sam, too. Although he never said anything about it, TJ figured it had to do with Sam being paralyzed, that Sam was having a hard time of it since he'd been hurt, and that had been more than evident when Dean had shown up with Sam tonight.

TJ had noticed Sam's air of despondency when he'd first entered the restaurant in the wheelchair and the dagger-filled look he'd given Dean while Dean had been helping him into the booth. It had kind of made TJ mad, since Dean didn't deserve it, but she supposed if she were a paraplegic _and_ had a screwed up shoulder to boot, she might be mad at the world, too.

She looked at Sam again. He was sitting sideways in the booth, legs in front of him on the seat and crossed nonchalantly at the ankles, silver laptop resting on his lap. He occasionally typed something or touched the built-in mouse with his left hand, since his right was strapped to his body in a huge sling.

He was wearing brown Merrell loafers, which seemed a little too mature for a guy his age, and his crossed feet hung off the end of the seat a little because his legs were so long. There was no nervous twitch in his feet or any movement in them whatsoever, and his jeans were a little too loose. Those things weren't remarkable by themselves, unless you already knew that his legs wouldn't move, that they were a little thinner than they should be because he was paralyzed.

Aside from the sling thing holding his right arm in place, TJ would never have guessed Sam was disabled. He exuded that sort of natural coolness, confidence, and masculinity that some guys just had and that he seemed totally unaware of. He wasn't cocky like Dean, and TJ guessed he probably hadn't been even before his accident or whatever had happened to him, but there was a soulfulness about him that was almost magnetic. Even when he was so obviously unhappy, as he had been when Dean had been helping him earlier, he was still attractive.

There was nothing to be pitied about Sam. She thought "disabled" was the term to use these days instead of "handicapped," but "disabled" didn't seem an appropriate way to describe Sam either. She thought there had to be a better way to say it, some better, politically-correct term or something, without making it who he was.

With his sort of longish, dark-brown hair and dimples that were making an appearance as he talked to Chanel, he was as handsome as Dean, although, as brothers, they looked nothing alike. TJ marveled at the gene pool that could have produced such different, yet heart-stopping good looks.

Dean was more all-American with his short, dirty-blond hair, chiseled features, and smart-ass sense of humor; Sam had more of the angsty thing going on with his longer hair, brooding eyes, and a sort of tragic air that would make just about any girl want to solve his problems for him—or at least give it a try. Both guys were beyond hot, and TJ figured their parents must have been part Greek god or something.

Life wasn't fair, was it? What did these guys need with such looks? TJ mentally scoffed at her own corn-fed, farm-girl body that she'd abhorred ever since she'd first begun to notice boys—like, when she was in preschool. Well, maybe she hadn't hated her body quite that long, but it hadn't been too many years after that when she'd realized that she wasn't attractive, that people didn't ooh and ah over her like they did petite little Emily Maddox that lived down the street.

TJ's body would never fit the cheerleader mold. She was more the plain, lumberjack type, and it was futile for her to lust after guys like Dean and Sam. She'd never stand a chance. Heather was more their type—or, at least, she was Dean's, if the way he looked at her was any indication. Dean was a consummate flirt, but there was a certain twinkle in his eye that he reserved just for Heather, although, for some reason, he'd never acted on it.

TJ looked over at Chanel again, hating her for her beautiful long hair, perfect body, and the conceit that gave her the courage to just go over and start talking to a guy like Sam, never once questioning whether Sam would want to talk to her.

Well, at least TJ had a soul. At least TJ's heart wasn't made of a block of ice. She looked back to Dean. "You want me to get rid of her?"

Dean shot TJ a wary glance. "I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

TJ had been known to be less than tactful to customers before, and Dean had had to intervene with Phil and Katherine, the owners of Shorty's, more than once to keep TJ from getting fired. "I promise I'll try to be good," said TJ. "I won't clock her or anything."

Dean gave her a warning look. "You're on thin ice, TJ. You know that. I don't know if I can save you the next time you piss off Phil and Katherine."

"Just let Katherine have a good squeeze of your ass and all will be right with the world. You know she's hot for you."

Dean made a face. "Hell no. I like you, sweetheart, but not _that_ much."

TJ didn't blame him. Katherine was a wrinkled old bag, and that was putting it politely. She smiled wickedly. "Yeah. Phil's probably more your type anyway. I think he's got the hots for you, too."

Dean's expressive face scrunched into an almost comical look of disgust. "Excuse me while I swallow my own vomit."

She laughed and then said, "I'm off to save _your_ brother from the clutches of evil. You owe me."

Dean arched a brow. "I think you still owe _me_ for the eighty-five thousand times I saved your ass from getting fired."

"Exaggeration."

"Okay. Eighty thousand, then."

She shrugged and gave him a _you know you love me_ grin, and Dean rolled his eyes.

TJ picked up her drink-laden tray and made her way over to the booth full of Chanel's friends, who weren't much more tolerable than Chanel. TJ doled out all the drinks except for the wine.

"Chanel's over there," said one of the girls with a dark tan and freeze-dried blond hair, and all the girls looked toward Sam's booth with blatant curiosity. TJ thought the girl's name that had spoken was Gucci or Gigi or something like that, but she couldn't really remember. They all had cheesy names like that.

TJ nodded in response to the girl, a wry twist to her mouth that conveyed that she had already worked that out, and headed toward Sam and Chanel. She wove her way between tables and reached the booth, and she smiled politely at Sam and then said to Chanel with disdain, "Here's your _Merlot._" She set the glass of red wine in front of Chanel.

Chanel's smile was saccharine. "Thanks, Nelly. Run along, now."

TJ stiffened at Chanel's use of her nickname.

Sam's brows drew together in a faintly perplexed look.

TJ was struck again by how good-looking he was, but quickly turned her attention back to Chanel. There was no way TJ should be having thoughts like that about Sam. "Your friends want you to come back over there, Chanel." It was a lie, but TJ was on a rescue mission and felt justified.

Chanel glanced at her cronies, who were all staring, and then tossed her hair. "They know better," she said haughtily.

_Subtle,_ thought TJ, and she shot Sam a WTF look behind Chanel's back.

Sam gave her a crooked smile, and TJ felt an odd sense of relief that he didn't seem to be falling for Chanel's shit. She didn't think Chanel or her idiot friends were his type, and the look on his face confirmed that.

Chanel looked back at Sam and gave him a sultry, coy look as she took a sip of her wine.

TJ rolled her eyes, trying not to gag.

Sam looked down at his laptop screen, his lips pressed together like he was suppressing a smile, causing his dimples to deepen.

He was so cute when he wasn't all surly—okay, he was cute even when he was surly—and TJ knew she was in trouble. She was getting that surge, that feeling of infatuation she got whenever she was first attracted to a guy. _Don't go there, _she admonished herself_. You're not his type, either. You're more Li'l Abner's type._

Chanel looked up at TJ and glared. "I thought I told you to run along, Nelly. Tell my friends I'll be back over there when I'm ready."

TJ clenched her teeth. "Fine. I'll put the wine on your tab."

TJ turned and had only walked a step when she heard Chanel say in an exaggerated, very poor impression of a country accent, "_Fine_. _I'll_ put the _wine_ on your tab." She was obviously mocking TJ.

TJ froze and then pivoted back around to face Chanel. She'd never in her life been in a fight, but at that moment TJ sorely wanted to kick Chanel's phony, bony ass. Chanel was like this every time, always needling at TJ like Chinese water torture, and TJ was tired of it.

"Isn't that such a sweet accent, Sam, the way she drawls out her I's?"

Sam didn't answer and eyed TJ warily, obviously sensing that she was ticked.

"Don't go there, Chanel," said TJ with dead calm.

"It's so...bumpkin. Tell me where you're from again." She put up her hand before TJ could speak. "No. Don't tell me. Oklahoma, right?" She looked at Sam. "So Dust Bowl, you know. The Okie coming to California for a better life."

Sam looked uncomfortable and cleared his throat.

TJ felt anger spread through her like hot lava. "Yeah. You're right, Chanel," she said, her voice dripping with derision. "I'm from Oklahoma." She grabbed the glass of red wine off the table and in one swift motion threw it in Chanel's face.

Chanel gasped as the Merlot splattered on her face and chest and promptly ran down onto her too-tight, red t-shirt.

TJ jutted her chin forward with pride. "And that, bitch, was the Grapes of Wrath."

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam's eyes widened, and he couldn't keep the grin off his face at TJ's last words.

Chanel's attention was solely on TJ now, and she stood up, slowly and deliberately wiping wine from her face with her hands.

There was a roll of brown paper towels next to the ketchup and the salt-and-pepper shakers on the table, but Sam didn't feel like being particularly helpful. He hadn't liked Chanel from the moment she'd sat down across from him uninvited, and he'd liked her even less when he had seen the condescending way she treated TJ.

He didn't really know TJ, but he'd heard Dean say she was a hard worker and likable, despite the fact that her mouth was always getting her into trouble with customers and, subsequently, the owners. Dean was always having to talk them out of firing her.

Chanel pulled her shoulders back and puffed up to her full height, which was only about to TJ's jaw line. TJ was a tall girl, and Chanel would be no match for TJ physically. Chanel was shaking with rage. "That's it. I'm going to get your ass fired, you stupid piece of white trash."

"Go ahead and try," said TJ, her eyes narrowed and jaw tense. Her menacing effect was a little undermined, however, by the girlish smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones.

There was another moment of tension, and then Chanel stalked off, giving TJ a dirty look over her shoulder.

Sam handed TJ the roll of paper towels with his left hand so she could wipe up the droplets of wine that had splashed onto the table and booth.

"Thanks," said TJ, brushing a strand of brown hair from her cheek. She began wiping up the mess, distracted when she saw Chanel talking animatedly to Dean at the bar, her brainless friends in a half circle surrounding her.

Dean was wiping down the bar with a beer-stained white towel, nodding his head occasionally as Chanel continued her rant, pointing at TJ.

TJ turned her attention back to the small mess, her mouth in a taut line. When she finished wiping, she wadded up the used paper towels, stuck them on her empty tray, and said to Sam with a hint of humor in her eyes, "Sorry I scared off your friend."

Sam huffed a laugh. "I owe you a big thanks."

"She probably will get me fired. I was kind of on probation, anyway."

"Don't worry. Dean'll get you out of it. Trust me."

"I don't know if he can this time. This might be the straw that broke the camel's back. I kind of have a hard time keeping my mouth shut. I should have just ignored her. She's an idiot." There was a beat of silence, and she changed the subject. "You ready for a menu?"

"Did Dean tell you to say that?"

She looked down at her tray and smiled before looking him in the eye. "Yeah. He told both Heather and me earlier. He said you'd get pissy if we didn't offer you the menu, even though he was pretty sure you'd order the Cobb salad and probably just an ice water."

Ordinarily, Sam would have been annoyed, but for some reason it just made him laugh. "What else did he say?"

"He also said not to ask until around seven." She looked at her watch. "I guess I jumped the gun."

Sam smiled. "I'm fine right now. Thanks."

"I'll come check on you at seven and not a minute before," she said with a teasing tone.

Sam nodded. "I'll try not to be too pissy."

"Good. I wouldn't want to have to go Grapes of Wrath on you, too." Her accent was pretty subtle, but it was more pronounced on certain words. It was kind of sassy and charming.

"Are you really from Oklahoma?"

She rolled her eyes. "Hell no. Never stepped foot there. I'm from Kentucky. I'm sure to Chanel, all us country girls sound alike, though."

A guy at a nearby table motioned to her, and she looked at Sam and gave a short sigh. "Duty calls. I'll be back after while."

Sam watched as she walked away in a hurry. She was way taller than average, thin, and wore jeans and the black Shorty's polo shirt that was the required uniform to work there, although her shirt was much baggier than Heather's. Her brown hair was in a ponytail, but several strands had fallen out and were tucked behind her ear. She wasn't beautiful like Chanel, but she had personality. Sam was glad that she'd given Chanel a comeuppance and simultaneously gotten Chanel out of his hair. Even if he'd been his old self, he wouldn't have been attracted to Chanel. He wasn't into the snotty, self-centered type.

Soon after Chanel and her friends finally walked out the door, Dean came over with Sam's wheelchair so Sam could take a break and go to the restroom. Sam was usually leery of public restrooms, even if they were supposedly wheelchair accessible, but, probably thanks to Dean, Shorty's was up to par, so there weren't too many problems, aside from the simple fact that Dean had to help him.

Sam hated it when Dean helped him even worse than when Bobby did. Dean represented all that Sam used to be—healthy, active, whole. Dean was supposed to be his brother, his equal, his friend—not his nursemaid—and Dean was a flesh-and-blood reminder of everything Sam had lost. When Sam had to have Dean's help, it stoked his grief and rage and always put him in a foul mood.

Around seven, true to her word, TJ intercepted Heather, who was carrying a menu toward Sam's booth, and took it away from the pretty red-head. She had looked at Sam mischievously, and, despite his bad mood, Sam had been amused that she wanted to be the one to take his order. He didn't think it was because she was interested in him, other than a friend, maybe, because she wasn't flirty. It was more that she just liked teasing him, and he liked her because of it. It made him feel halfway normal.

She made her way to Sam's table and told him he should be a rebel and not order what Dean had predicted, but in the end, he'd ordered exactly what Dean had said he would. The other stuff on the menu was pretty much crap, and Sam would have ordered the Cobb salad even back in the days when he didn't have to watch everything he ate. He also ordered water. He was on a pretty strong painkiller for his shoulder and hadn't drunk anything with alcohol since his fall.

Shorty's closed at ten on weekdays, and Dean and the girls finally got the last of the drunks herded out close to eleven. Dean took Sam for another bathroom break and then once again got him settled into the booth, this time sitting straight forward, facing the table, feet on the floor, to shift position, as Dean had helped him do a few times throughout the evening.

Sam had long since gotten tired of surfing the web, and he had closed his laptop and set it on the table. He leaned his head against the tall back of the booth and watched as Dean, Heather, and TJ began cleaning up for the night and getting things ready for the next day. Sam was tired, and he hoped they would be done soon.

He was almost dozing when TJ came over carrying a large, gray, plastic tub full of what looked like clean silverware and a clear sack full of little paper packets that said "Shorty's" on them. "Mind if I join you?" she said in her faint drawl.

"No, go ahead." He'd thought about denying her, but TJ seemed innocuous enough, and he was bored. It was almost the same situation as when Chanel had come over to him, but he didn't mind it like he had with Chanel. TJ was easygoing and Sam didn't feel nervous around her. There was nothing threatening about her, and, besides, she already knew that Sam was paralyzed and didn't make a big deal of it.

"Thanks," she said tiredly. "I need to take a load off, and I have to put the clean silverware in these," she said, indicating the little packets.

"Need some help?"

"That would be great. I hate doing this. It's so tedious."

Sam opened his eyes wider, surprised. He hadn't thought she would actually take him up on his offer. He wasn't used to anyone needing his help anymore.

She put a stack of packets and a sheet of small, round, neon stickers that said "Clean" on them in front of him and a pile of silverware.

Sam stared for a moment and said, "Uh, I have to do it one-handed."

TJ half-shrugged. "I know. It's not brain surgery. I could do it with my teeth if I had to."

Sam was quiet, and TJ raised her brows. "Oops. Was that insensitive? I mean, you know, since..." She indicated his wheelchair, which Dean had left by the table this time since the restaurant was closed and it wouldn't be in the way.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm not a quadriplegic. I have full use of my arms. Well, at least I do when my shoulder isn't broken."

"Oh. Right." She started to get a pile of supplies out for herself to assemble. "It's just that you're the first person I've ever really met, you know, that's disabled or whatever, so just tell me if I say something offensive."

Sam was surprised by her honesty.

"I mean, like, you know, what should I call you?" she said, giving him a direct look. "Is 'disabled' even the right word?"

Sam hated that word. To him, it was no better than "handicapped." It all meant the same thing, no matter how you sugarcoated it, and he hated the fact that those words defined who he was now, that his identity had completely changed. However, he understood where TJ was coming from and appreciated the fact that she was actually asking his opinion, was aware of his feelings. He smiled a little and said, "I don't know. How about 'Sam'?"

Her ears turned a little pink, and she pushed her tongue into her cheek, which gave her mouth a funny quirk. "Right. I should have seen that one comin'."

His smile deepened.

"All right, _Sam_, I'm gonna show you this one-handed so you get the idea. The trickiest part is going to be getting the packet to stay open while you get the silverware in." She demonstrated it with her left hand, exaggerating the movements in a funny way that made Sam laugh. After he assembled one himself, she gave him her seal of approval.

They sat in companionable silence for a while as they worked, and then TJ let out a huge yawn and said, "This is putting me to sleep. What do you say we make it a little more interesting?"

Sam was intrigued. "How?"

"Let's make it a race. I'll do it one-handed, using my left, of course, so it'll be even."

"All right. You're on."

She eyed him with an arched brow. "We only count the ones from this point on, and sloppy ones don't count."

It was an extremely simple thing to do, and Sam looked at his pile of finished packets. They were all filled with a stainless-steel knife, fork, and spoon, and the top of the small sack was folded over and held in place with a "clean" sticker. Perplexed, he said, "What constitutes a sloppy one?"

She pretended to inspect his finished pile with a discerning eye. Gingerly, she plucked one from the pile. "This one, for starters. Look at the crooked fold on this."

Sam smirked. "Seriously?"

She waved her hand in dismissal. "Nah. Just kidding. Readysetgo!"

She'd said it so fast that it took Sam a second to realize that she had abruptly started the race. "Hey, that's cheating!" he said, but he grinned and started filling his packets in earnest.

"Person with the most packets when we're all finished wins," she said, not missing a beat as she stuffed, folded, and sealed—all with only her left hand.

Soon, the piles of sack packets and silverware had dwindled to nothing. "These are the last ones," she said, as they both sealed the last packets in their piles. "Count 'em up."

It took a minute to count them all, but when they were done, she looked at Sam and said, "24."

Sam raised a brow. "25."

"Oh, that kills! I demand a recount!"

"Score one for the gimp."

Her eyes widened. "I don't think that word is PC."

"Yeah. Probably not," said Sam, unrepentant. "I think if you're actually a gimp, though, you can get away with it."

She rolled her eyes.

Sam shrugged his good shoulder. "Being paralyzed sucks. There ought to be at least a few perks to it."

"Like awesome parking?"

He smiled. "Right."

"Of course, if some three-hundred-pound redneck with a scooter gets the parking space first, you're screwed."

Sam raised a brow.

"I'm sorry. Was that insensitive?"

"Maybe a little. I'm sure it would hurt the three-hundred-pound redneck's feelings."

She shrugged. "I don't think there's too many of them here in San Diego, unless you make a trip to Wal-Mart."

Sam winced. "I'm sure this whole conversation would make most people cringe."

She gave a wry smirk. "Now you can see why I'm about to get fired."

At that moment, Dean walked up to the table. "She put you to work, Sammy?"

Instantly, Sam was on edge.

TJ looked at Sam with something like curiosity at his reaction, and then she glanced at Dean. "He's a quick learner, although his technique could use some practice."

Despite his irritation with Dean, Sam smiled. "I schooled you, and you know it."

"You won by one packet!"

"And you even had a head start."

She gave Sam a look of mock affront. "I did not!"

Sam challenged her with a reproachful look.

Her eyes were full of humor. "It's not my fault if you weren't paying attention."

Sam smiled again, and he realized he'd probably smiled more tonight than he had in the past year.

"You ready, Sam," asked Dean. "I think we're done here."

"Bye guys," yelled Heather as she headed toward the door, leather hobo bag slung over her shoulder.

Dean's head turned toward her as if her pull was magnetic. "Bye. See you tomorrow."

"Bye," said Sam and TJ at the same time.

Heather hardly acknowledged them, though. Her coppery hair reached past her shoulders in a shiny mane, and she flicked it back with a coquettish toss of her head and then locked her eyes on Dean, a faint, seductive curve to her mouth.

Dean quickly looked away, pretending he hadn't noticed.

Sam frowned. It wasn't like Dean not to engage in a flirt with a beautiful girl who clearly had an interest in him.

TJ started putting the finished silverware packets into the big tub she had carried over. "God, I'm so tired," she drawled.

"I don't see any tar in here," teased Dean.

"_Tired_," corrected TJ with mock primness.

"Tell me about it," said Dean, scrubbing a hand over his face. "You ready, Sam?" Dean asked again.

Sam released an exhale through his nose, dreading the ordeal of getting into the wheelchair and then getting into the Impala and not wanting TJ to witness it.

TJ stood up, though, and suddenly went ghostly pale, swaying.

Sam tensed, his quick hunter's instincts surfacing as if he could spring up and catch her, which was completely futile, of course.

Dean instantly grabbed her by the upper arms. "TJ! Are you okay?"

She blinked and had a confused look on her face, eyes unfocused.

Dean carefully helped her to sit back down. "TJ? You all right?"

Some of the color returned to her face, and she smiled weakly. "It was just a head rush."

Dean frowned. "Did you ever take a dinner break tonight?"

Her mouth quirked in a wry line. "What do you think? When would I have had time?"

"You should've at least had a snack or something," said Dean. "When's the last time you ate?"

She frowned. "Lunch, I guess."

There was something in her tone that made Sam even doubt that.

"All right. The kitchen is closed here, but let's find somewhere that's still open and get you some food." He glanced at Sam. "You up for that, Sammy?"

"It's Sam," he corrected automatically, and, no, he wasn't up for going anywhere else. His painkiller was wearing off, and his shoulder and ribs were starting to hurt, not to mention that he was past due for his evening dose of the antispasticity med, but he wasn't going to admit it. He looked at TJ. "Let's get you some food."

She searched his face for a moment and then said, "I'm okay. Really." As if to prove it, she stood up again, slower this time, and seemed more steady on her feet. "Look. No hands," she joked.

She still looked pale, and Sam wasn't totally convinced. From the look on Dean's face, neither was he.

TJ rolled her eyes. "Seriously, y'all," she drawled, "all I need is a giant cup of coffee, and I'll be fine." She looked at her watch. "I've gotta go. I have to study for a test that I have tomorrow."

"I think you need to eat and go to bed," urged Dean.

She grimaced. "I wish I could, but I already failed the first test in this class, and if I fail tomorrow, I'm in danger of losing my scholarship for graduate school next year. This class is totally kicking my ass, and if I fail, it'll screw up my GPA."

"What class is it?" asked Sam.

"Latin. The professor is psycho. I've never had this much trouble in a class before."

Dean arched his brows and smiled. "You gotta be kidding me. What are the odds of that, Sam?"

Sam looked at Dean warily. "Odds of what?"

Dean smiled at TJ. "Sam here is practically an expert on that subject. I'm sure he wouldn't mind helping you out."

_Oh, no, he didn't. He didn't just volunteer me to tutor her_, thought Sam. He clenched his jaw.

"Really?" asked TJ hopefully, and she seemed to perk up.

"Dean could help you, too," said Sam quietly, trying to hold in his irritation.

"Oh?"

Dean gave Sam a direct look. "Your Latin is way better than mine, and I work _every_ day of the week, Sammy. I'm sure _you_ would have more time."

Sam's irritation morphed into bona fide anger. "I have therapy, _Dean_."

"You can work around it."

That infuriated Sam more. Dean knew what Sam's days were like, how rigid his schedule was. How the hell could Dean invite some girl smack into the middle of it? It would disrupt everything, not to mention be embarrassing. Sam liked TJ the little bit he'd hung out with her, but he didn't want her to see how he lived.

TJ was studying both Sam and Dean, her face unreadable. Almost cautiously, she said to Sam, "It wouldn't take long. Even just thirty minutes once or twice a week would help."

Sam probably would have been glad to help TJ in another life, but, now, it was too much to ask. "I'm sorry, TJ. I can't."

Dean's jaw hardened. "You _can_."

Sam glared at Dean. "Maybe I _can_, but I _won't," _he ground out.

He and Dean stared at each other a moment, and Sam felt the old tension he used to feel right before he and Dean would have one of their knock-down, drag-out fights. The hostility had been building between them for months, and Sam wished so badly he could still pounce on Dean and they could settle this the way they used to—beat the crap out of each other and then drink a beer afterward. But he couldn't, and that realization hammered home yet again the fact that half his body was lifeless and that nothing was the same and never would be again, unless they found a fucking cure for him.

TJ interrupted their standoff. "It's okay, guys. Really. Thanks, Dean, for the offer, but I can handle it. I've just got to get my ass in gear."

Sam apologized silently with a lame smile.

"All right," she said, picking up the tub and tucking it next to her hip, "I'm gonna put this away, and I'll see you tomorrow," she said to Dean.

Dean nodded, still clearly ticked off at Sam.

She smiled at Sam. "I'll see you around," and her Southern accent was more pronounced, maybe because she was fatigued.

"Yeah," he answered quietly. He felt a pang of guilt that he had refused to tutor her and a deeper feeling of something he couldn't quite explain, something akin to regret that he probably wouldn't be seeing her anytime soon. He sure as hell wasn't planning any more trips to Shorty's for a while.

As she walked away, Dean ordered, "Get something to eat."

She turned and looked at him over her shoulder, still looking too pale, but the smile on her face was a little cocky. "Yes, Boss."

After she was gone, Dean gave Sam a look of disapproval.

Sam gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, not in the mood for a confrontation. "Let's just go, Dean."

**XXXXXXXX**

Two days later, Sam began the day from hell. He'd woken up with his shoulder and ribs killing him, the phantom pain in his legs rearing its ugly head with a vengeance, and soaked sheets to top it all off. Sam was always careful not to drink anything after eight o'clock in the evening and always cathed himself right before he went to bed, but sometimes he still wet it occasionally.

He always made sure there was a large, absorbent pad under the bottom sheet on his bed and a heavy-duty, water-proof cover to protect the mattress. Before he'd hurt his shoulder, it hadn't been that big of a deal to just discreetly wash the sheets and wet clothing after Dean went to work, but, of course, now that Bobby had to help him out of bed, there was no hiding it. So, Sam had started the day with Bobby stripping him and the bed of soaked clothing and helping him change into clean boxers so he could begin his bathroom and shower routine. It had been demeaning and mortifying, and neither of them had said a word.

Sam did, of course, have the choice of avoiding it all by either wearing a catheter with a collection bag at night or an adult diaper. Some fucking choice. He'd be damned, first.

By the time he'd finally gotten dressed, the ache in his shoulder and ribs had been dulled by the painkiller, but, as usual, it had hardly made a dent in the searing ghost pain in his legs. He'd been told he was luckier than a lot of people with SCI. His pain was intermittent, and he didn't have pain at the site of his injury. He sometimes went several days without having it, whereas some people with SCI lived with it constantly. The doctors surmised that his pain was all due to a misfiring of nerves from the healthy part of his cord to his brain. In other words, it was basically all in his head. Yeah, he was really fucking lucky.

At least he didn't have any appointments today and was spared the ordeal of having to go somewhere and be around people. He'd already bitten Bobby's head off several times, and he'd only been out of bed for an hour and a half. He just wanted to go back to bed and curl in on himself and grit his teeth through the pain, but he knew Bobby wouldn't let him. It was too much of a hassle to get Sam out of bed for him to just turn right around and get back into it. Besides, they still hadn't done his morning therapy session. His overnight "accident" had gotten them off schedule.

He was sitting in the power chair staring at the TV, aimlessly flipping through channels. It was amazing that they had something like two hundred channels, but there was almost never anything good to watch. His neck and jaw were tense, and he tried to stop clenching his teeth, but it was his only outlet for the pain he felt in his legs. He couldn't clench his right hand because it would use forbidden shoulder muscles, and he was using his left to control the remote. He was about a nanosecond from chucking the remote at the wall in frustration when the doorbell rang.

He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling, then closed his eyes and sighed. What now?

Bobby was taking a shower in Dean's bathroom, so it was up to Sam to answer the door. Maybe if he didn't answer, whoever it was would go away.

But, of course, they didn't. Whoever it was, they were persistent. Where was Bobby? Surely he was out of the shower by now.

The doorbell rang twice more in quick succession. Their visitor was obviously growing impatient.

With a deep sigh, Sam pushed the joystick on the power chair and made his way over to the door. He should have asked who it was, but in his annoyance, he carelessly opened it without thinking. He looked up and was surprised to see TJ standing there.

"Hey, Sam," she said with a genuine smile. She was wearing a black, oversized sweatshirt with red SDSU lettering, jeans, and flip-flops. Her brown hair was in a ponytail, and she had a small, brown leather purse slung over one shoulder and a gray backpack slung over the other.

Sam frowned. "TJ?"

"You ready to get started?"

Sam's frown deepened. "Started on what?"

"On the tutoring?" Her manner grew uncertain. "Dean said you'd changed your mind about helping me."

Instantly, Sam's stomach knotted with fury. He was going to kill Dean.

_**TBC**_

_**A/N: I know this chapter was pretty lame. I had a hard time writing it, and I apologize if it's boring. I'd still like to know what you think, so please review!**_

_**Also, for those of you who aren't familiar, **_**The Grapes of Wrath**_** is a famous novel by John Steinbeck. It's about a poor family of sharecroppers driven from their home in Oklahoma because of drought and economic hardship. They go to California, along with thousands of other Oklahomans, to seek a better life, but they were often scorned and looked down upon.**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: Thanks to all of you who reviewed the last chapter. You guys gave me the boost I needed to move on, and I think this one is better. Hope you like!**_

**Chapter 5**

TJ was feeling decidedly awkward. Judging by Sam's iron-set jaw and the scowl on his face, he had definitely _not_ changed his mind about tutoring her. Of course he hadn't. Her luck never ran that way. Hot guys like Sam never wanted to help her out of the goodness of their hearts. She wasn't the type of girl that inspired that type of chivalry.

She should just pretend that she must have misunderstood Dean, that it was all a mistake, and turn on her heel and leave. And she would have, except that she was pissed off—pissed at Dean for setting her up and pissed at Sam because, dammit, he _hadn't_ changed his mind, and he _still_ didn't want to tutor her.

She needed his help. She had flunked another test in her stupid Latin class yesterday, and she had to practically ace the last two tests of the semester, or she was toast. Her dreams of being a famous research scientist (or—who was she kidding?—just making it to grad school) and her graduate scholarship all hinged on this required class for her major. The professor was a sadist, but she'd been confident she could handle it. After all, she'd always been a stellar student, almost to the point of nerdiness. For some reason, though, this class was about to get her goat.

She couldn't withdraw because this was the last semester of her senior year. She had a job lined up for the summer as a teaching assistant to undergrads before she started the molecular biology master's program at SDSU, and she sure as hell didn't want to have to take summer school or possibly screw up her graduation. She _would_ pass this class, and Sam Winchester was going to help her do it. She couldn't afford to pay for a real tutor, and, well, she just wanted it to be Sam.

He was wearing a long-sleeved, navy-colored v-neck with a white t-shirt peeking out underneath at the neck, and his dark-brown hair almost reached to shoulder length and kind of curled a bit near his ears. He had on loose jeans like the ones he'd worn at Shorty's the other night, but he was only wearing white socks on his feet, which rested almost primly on the footrests of his wheelchair. His right arm was still in the ginormous sling, and his left hand rested on the little lever thing that controlled his wheelchair. His legs were lax and unmoving, of course, but his upper body was tense, the muscles in his neck and chest stiff. He was clearly ticked off but trying to hold it in, and he exuded strength and power—looking totally hot in the process.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she had to force herself to suck in a breath of air. Ignoring Sam's obvious displeasure, she said, "Well, can I come in?"

He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose with his left hand, and inhaled deeply. Then he looked up at her with those serious eyes of his, brow slightly furrowed. "TJ, I'm sorry. Dean—"

"Great!" she interrupted with false cheer and pushed her way past him, bumping the control panel that stuck out beyond the left armrest of the wheelchair in the process, since he was pretty much blocking the doorway. "Oops. Sorry," she said, without looking back at him.

"TJ—"

"Where should I set up?" She looked around the sparsely furnished apartment with its laminate wood floors and saw an eighties-style table with blond-stained wood veneer and a glass tabletop in the dining nook near the kitchen. It looked like a dinette set straight out of _Mork & Mindy_.

"Look, TJ—"

"Is the table okay?" She didn't wait for him to answer. She made her way to it and started unloading her backpack.

"TJ!" Sam said, raising his voice. He was still by the open door.

"What?" she asked innocently.

"I can't tutor you."

"Why?"

His jaw was firm, and he looked away for a moment. "I just can't."

TJ felt a strange tug on her heart. He looked sort of strained and forlorn, and it made her feel a little guilty for forcing her way into his morning. "Why not?" she asked again softly.

He winced, shutting his eyes for a second, and then looked her in the eye. "It's not a good time. Bobby will be out of the shower soon, and I have to do my therapy."

"Dean said you'd be done by this time."

His jaw turned to iron again and he swallowed hard before glancing out the door. "There was...a delay."

"Oh." She sensed struggle and anguish behind his simple words.

"If you can wait half an hour or so, he'll be done with therapy," said a gruff looking older guy who had just stepped into the living room. Obviously, he had heard some of TJ and Sam's exchange.

"Stay out of this, Bobby," said Sam. The volume of his voice was low but held a warning.

The man ignored Sam and gave TJ a silent look that seemed to say, _Don't give up just yet_.

Recognizing an ally, she smiled at him and said, "Hi. I'm TJ Nelek."

"Bobby Singer," he said, giving her a nod. "Nice to meet ya."

"Oh, so you're Bobby. Nice to meet you, too. Dean talks about you a lot," she said, letting some of her Kentucky accent slip through. She usually tried to hide it since it seemed to diminish her intelligence in the eyes of a lot of the Californians she met, but sometimes it just seemed appropriate and made her feel more like herself.

"Yeah, well, don't believe everything you hear," Bobby said dryly.

She laughed. "I don't believe most of what Dean tells me."

"Smart girl." He inclined his head toward Sam. "What's this chucklehead gonna tutor you in?"

"_Nothing_," Sam interjected with emphasis, glowering at Bobby.

TJ smiled with irony. "Apparently, nothing."

Bobby shot Sam a dour look and then said to TJ, "What did you _think_ he was going to tutor you in?"

"Latin."

Bobby lifted the bill of the cap he was wearing and scratched his head. "Well, if he won't do it, I will. I know a little something about Latin myself."

TJ was a little taken aback. It was far from what she had expected. Of course, she would rather it be Sam, but a free tutor was a free tutor, even if he was a grizzled-looking, middle-aged man who had the vibe of a trucker. What was it with these men? Why did they all know Latin? She could maybe see Sam knowing it, but Dean and Bobby? It was weird, but, at this point, she just wanted to pass her nightmare of a class, and she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, everyone had their quirks.

"Wow, thanks, Mr. Singer," said TJ. "That would be great." She slanted a look at Sam to see his reaction.

Sam's jaw seemed to be permanently set in granite, still tense, and he was looking at Bobby with murder in his eyes. He slammed the front door and rolled his way into the living area, the soft whir of the wheelchair's motor almost deafening in the uncomfortable silence that followed.

Bobby cleared his throat and said to TJ, "I need to help Sam with his PT, but after that, I'm free. Do you mind waiting for about thirty minutes or so?"

"No, not at all," TJ replied. "I have other stuff I can work on while you guys are doing that."

Bobby nodded and raised a brow at Sam. "You ready, kid?"

Sam exhaled harshly through his nose, his mouth tight. "Not in here."

TJ realized he didn't want her to see, and she wondered what the big deal was.

"All right. We'll go to your room, then," Bobby said, his expression wary. It was obvious he was in hot water with Sam, and he knew it.

Without giving TJ a second glance, Sam pushed the control of the wheelchair and rolled himself down a short hallway, disappearing through a doorway at the very end that TJ guessed might be the master bedroom.

Bobby gave TJ a look of apology. "Make yourself at home."

TJ nodded, sympathetic to Bobby's plight. "Thanks again, Mr. Singer. You don't know how much I appreciate this."

Bobby nodded and then turned and headed down the hall, leaving TJ to wonder what the hell had gotten into her. She had a smart mouth sometimes, but she was never this pushy. She was a Southern girl, and it had been ingrained in her since birth not to overstay her welcome and always mind her manners. Clearly, Sam hadn't wanted her there, but she'd barged in anyway. Her grandmother was probably rolling over in her grave at TJ's rudeness.

Dismayed, TJ pulled out a brass-framed chair from the table and plopped down in it. She'd felt at ease with Sam the other night, like a friendship had begun. Once past his surliness, he'd been fun and seemed like a nice guy. Now, she'd made him mad, but what else was new? It was the story of her life.

**XXXXXXXX**

Bobby manipulated Sam's right leg, doing the prescribed exercises that kept Sam's muscles, joints, and ligaments more flexible and helped prevent muscle and joint contractures. They'd already done Sam's shoulder therapy, and the leg exercises were something that Sam had been doing twice a day for the past several months since he'd gotten out of rehab and would continue to do for the rest of his life, if, God forbid, they couldn't find a cure for him.

Sam was on his bed, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, an extra set of clean sheets having replaced the wet ones while Sam had been in the shower. Bobby had placed the wet ones in the washer, and he reminded himself to put them in the dryer before he sat down to help TJ. Of course, he was hoping that, somehow, Sam might come around and change his mind about tutoring her, but the kid was stubborn, and Bobby wasn't going to hold his breath.

With everything that had happened that morning, in addition to the leg pain that Bobby knew Sam had woken up with and was still feeling, TJ couldn't have picked a worse day to show up on Sam's doorstep. Bobby could always tell when Sam was feeling the phantom pains because his upper body stayed tense and he clenched and unclenched his left fist constantly. Of course, Sam never said anything about it out loud.

Dean shouldn't have set up Sam and the unsuspecting TJ this way, but Bobby understood why he'd done it. Dean loved Sam, and he would do anything to try to help Sam get his life back, even if it was underhandedly sending a girl over to wreak havoc in Sam's strictly scheduled life. He was just sorry TJ had been essentially thrown to the wolves—or wolf, in this case. To her credit, though, she didn't seem to be a shrinking violet, and Bobby figured Dean had known that. Most girls would have turned tail and run at the fierce scowl that had been on Sam's face, but she'd pretty much ignored it.

Sam had been quiet and subdued during the therapy session, but Bobby knew that there was anger simmering just below the surface. He hadn't said anything to Sam except for the occasional words necessary for the PT session, had been just waiting for Sam to draw first blood.

"Were you in on it, Bobby?"

And there it was.

Sam's voice was calm, but the tight line of his mouth indicated that he was feeling anything but tranquil.

Bobby sighed. "No. I didn't know she was coming over today, but I knew that Dean was pissed that you wouldn't even consider tutoring her." He paused for a second, holding Sam's long leg in midair, and gave Sam a gimlet eye. "You could teach her Latin in your sleep, Sam."

Sam's gaze went back to the ceiling. "It's not about that, Bobby."

The dejected tone of Sam's voice cut through Bobby's heart like a knife, and Bobby hesitated for a moment before saying simply, "I know."

Sam's wet sheets that morning had been a big blow to Sam' self-esteem, mainly, Bobby suspected, because he had been witness to it. Sam's self-confidence was already in the gutter because of this damn injury, and Bobby wished like hell there was something he could do to help.

A few more moments of silence had passed when Bobby said, "Your legs still hurtin'?"

Sam's eyes shifted from the ceiling to meet Bobby's, but then he closed them tightly and furrowed his brow as a wave of pain seemed to wash over him. "Yeah," he rasped through clenched teeth.

It was rare that Sam ever admitted he was in pain, and Bobby knew it must be really bad if Sam was actually acknowledging it. "Maybe you should do something to get your mind off of it."

Sam swallowed, his forehead still wrinkled. "Conjugating verbs in Latin isn't gonna help."

Bobby quirked a brow. "Does sittin' around wallowing in it help?"

Sam drew in a deep breath, as if trying to force himself to relax. As the pain seemed to subside a bit, he went back to staring at his favorite spot on the ceiling, not answering the question.

Bobby put down Sam's right leg and started the exercises on his left.

They passed more time in silence, and as Bobby started the last set of reps, bending Sam's knee and pushing it up to Sam's chest, Sam sighed and said, "So, you're gonna tutor her?" Surprisingly, there was a trace of humor in his eyes.

Bobby shrugged. "Why not?" He gave Sam a sarcastic look. "As much as I love your cheerful, scintillating company, tutoring a coed who's young enough to be my daughter might be a nice diversion."

One of the corners of Sam's mouth curved upward. "Daughter?"

"Yes, _daughter_," said Bobby with narrowed eyes. "I ain't that old."

When Bobby was finished with the exercises, he helped Sam get the immobilizer back on and then helped him back into the power chair using the transfer board.

"All right, kid. Keep the TV volume low if you're gonna watch it. I don't want my study session to be disturbed by some damn rerun of Law and Order," Bobby grumbled.

Sam rolled his eyes. There was a beat of silence, and then he said quietly, "I'll do it, Bobby."

Bobby's heartbeat quickened with hope, but he didn't let it show. "Do what? Keep the TV turned down?"

Sam exhaled a deep breath. "No. I'll do the tutoring."

Bobby gave a short nod and tried to remain stoic, holding in a grin. "All right. I just hope TJ isn't gonna be too disappointed. You know how young coeds are always falling in love with their much older professors."

The humor was back in Sam's eyes. "I think she'll probably be okay."

Bobby nodded again.

Sam pushed the joystick, and the motor on the wheelchair came to life. He spun himself around toward the door.

"Sam?" said Bobby, as Sam had just rolled through the threshold.

Sam's back was to Bobby, so he twisted as much as he could to his left side, looking over his left shoulder, and said, "Yeah?"

"Go easy on Dean for the TJ thing. He did it because he loves you, kiddo."

Sam's jaw tightened, and he sat there as if frozen for a moment. Then he faced forward, and the chair moved down the hall.

Bobby wondered how Sam didn't crack a tooth, since the kid's jaw seemed to be permanently locked in a vise these days.

**XXXXXXXX**

TJ was absorbed in her organic chemistry textbook, completely losing herself in the complex and fascinating subject, as she always did. She was a scientist to the core, and anything having to do with research and even remotely related to molecular biology was her passion.

"Do you still want me to help you?" Sam's sort of husky, deep voice sliced through her scientific meditation.

She felt a tingling down her spine and looked up from her work to see him a few feet from the table. Quirking a brow, she said, "Are you gonna be pissy?"

"Probably. Are you gonna be insensitive?"

"Of course. I'm an equal-opportunity offender."

The corners of his mouth curved into what could almost be construed as a smile, but then it morphed into a grimace, like he was in pain.

Concerned, TJ said, "Are you okay?"

"Fine," he answered stiffly.

She wasn't sure she believed him, but the look on his face said there was no room for discussion.

There was an empty space at the table where a chair was missing, and TJ presumed it was that way so Sam could pull up to it. It was a four-top, round table, and a few seconds later, he proved her right by parking his chair to her right side, where the opening was.

He smelled good, all hunky guy and aftershave, and TJ mentally kicked herself for noticing. And then she kicked herself again for noticing that his eyes were hazel.

_Snap out of it, TJ!_ _He's out of your league, _she reminded herself.

She put away her chem book and dug out the dreaded Latin textbook, and after she had explained to him the many things she was having trouble with in the subject, their tutoring session was under way.

Bobby came back out to the living area about fifteen minutes into their studying. "Sam, I'm gonna make a run to the store. You need anything?"

"I'm good, Bobby. Thanks." A brief look passed between them, and Sam glanced at his watch.

"I'll be back in an hour and a half, kid," said Bobby, and it was almost like he was reassuring Sam.

Sam nodded.

Bobby cocked his head at TJ in farewell. "TJ?"

She smiled and said, "Bye, Mr. Singer."

"Call me Bobby, kiddo."

"I can do that."

He winked and made his way out the front door.

TJ and Sam spent another twenty-five minutes or so on the Latin, and then, since TJ had said at the restaurant that she wouldn't stay too long, she said, "So, I guess I should probably go."

Sam frowned. "Are we done?"

She felt a little sheepish. "Well, since I practically forced my way in here and demanded you tutor me when you clearly didn't want to, I'm thinking I shouldn't overstay my non-welcome. I don't want to be insensitive," she added with a crooked grin.

He clenched his jaw, and anger flashed briefly in his eyes. "You weren't the one who was insensitive."

She was a little shocked by his sudden animosity, and her grin quickly fell away. "You're referring to Dean."

He looked away and exhaled, his jaw still tight.

"You know, I'm not exactly thrilled at how he set us up either, but I know he cares about you, Sam. He talks about you all the time."

He turned back to her, and the soulfulness of his eyes took her breath away. She felt something like an electric current buzz through her, but Sam seemed oblivious to her reaction to him. Of course he was. It's not like he would have the same kind of reaction to her.

"It's complicated, TJ," he said. "Since my injury..."

She waited, but he didn't continue. "He treats you differently?" she ventured.

He looked at her intently for a moment, as if he kind of wanted to open up to her, but then he raised his brows, glanced away, and changed the subject. "So, your last name is Nelek. Is that why Chanel called you 'Nelly'?

TJ released the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, a little disappointed that he chose not to confide in her, and started packing up her things. "Yeah. It's been one of my nicknames my whole life, but, coming from her, it's an insult." She shrugged. "I don't know. It's the way she says it."

"And this is all from you waiting on her at Shorty's?"

She packed the last of her study materials into her backpack and zipped it up. "No. She's been torturing me since freshman year. We lived on the same hall in the dorms."

"So what's the 'TJ' stand for?"

She was cynical. "That, you will never know."

"Why?"

"Because I'm convinced my parents were off their rockers on moonshine and possibly crack when they named me."

He laughed. "I'm sure it's not that bad."

"Yeah. It is," she said with finality, and tried not to stare at his dimples. She felt like that college girl from the Indiana Jones movie who had "I heart you" painted on her eyelids. "I will only tell it to my future soul mate, whomever he may be, and, yes, I did say _he_. I may look like a lesbian, but I'm not."

He frowned. "Um, I don't think you're a lesbian, TJ. Far from it," he added quietly.

"Thanks." She stared at her backpack and tried to hide how pathetically happy the fact that he didn't assume she was a lesbian made her feel. She wouldn't have been surprised if he had thought so. The lesbian regulars that came into Shorty's certainly did, and they flirted with her a lot. It wasn't that she didn't like them. They were cool girls, but for once she'd actually like to get hit on by a cute guy, since she wasn't even remotely gay.

"So what's your major?"

"Biology, with a double minor in chemistry and physics. I want to go to grad school for molecular biology."

"Wow."

She smiled. "I love it. My brain is geared toward it. It's crap like Latin that blows my mind."

"I'm the opposite, I guess."

"More of a liberal arts kind of guy?"

Something a little like nostalgia crossed his features. "Yeah, I guess."

"You were going to go to law school, right?"

"Is there anything Dean hasn't told you?"

"He didn't tell me why you quit Stanford. Was it because of your injury?"

"No. That happened after I had already quit. I just needed a break," he said vaguely. He rubbed an old nick in the glass top of the table with his left index finger.

TJ admired the length and grace of his fingers and then kicked herself again mentally. _Stop it!_

She knew there had to be more to why he'd quit, and she got the vibe that it was something very painful. She should probably keep her mouth shut, but since when had she ever listened to the inner voice that told her that? "You threw away a full ride to Stanford just because you needed a break? Why, Sam?"

"Maybe I'll tell my future soul mate someday." He said it with scornful sarcasm, like he stood more of a chance of seeing pigs fly.

She didn't know what to say to that without telling him she thought he was totally hot and could probably have girls lined up to be his soul mate if he would just let them. Instead, she asked, "Why don't you go back to school, now, and finish?"

His face hardened. "You mean why don't I use my brain since I can't do anything else?"

She rolled her eyes. "Maybe you could major in 'Get this damn chip off my shoulder.'"

He shot her a narrowed look. "Spare me the 'Think-about-what-you-can-do/not-what-you-can't' speech. You don't know what you're talking about, TJ. You don't know what my life is like."

She slung her purse and her heavy backpack over her shoulder, scooting forward in her chair but not standing yet, not wanting to tower over Sam. "You're right. I can only go by what I see."

They locked eyes for a moment, and then he said in that quiet, intense way of his, "What do you see?"

She felt herself blush a little, but she didn't back down. "I see an incredibly intelligent, interesting, and, um, attractive guy," she said, hoping that admitting he was attractive didn't sound like she was lusting after him, even though she was. She would die of embarrassment, though, if he knew that.

"Don't pretend you don't see the wheelchair."

"Of course I do, but the more I get to know you, the more it fades into the background."

He looked tense—and skeptical.

Why was that so hard for him to believe? She found it annoying. "I don't care if you believe me or not, Sam, but I don't pity you, and I never say anything I don't mean."

"You think I'm attractive?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't worry. I'm not going to jump your bones."

He held her gaze, an unreadable expression on his face.

She was the first to look away and then stood, suddenly feeling shy after her admission. Before the silence could get too weird, she turned back to him and said, "So, thanks for the tutoring session, Sam. You have no idea what a huge help you've been today."

He took a deep breath, and some of the tenseness in his shoulders drained away. "Actually, yeah, I do," he said, looking up at her with a bit of humor lighting his eyes.

"Ha. Funny."

He smiled, and then he pulled away from the table and rolled over to the front door to walk her out. Or roll her out. Or whatever. He even made the power chair seem cool somehow. With a quick twist of the doorknob and a deft maneuver to get his chair out of the way of the opening door, he got it open—all one-handed.

She admired the sure, graceful way he moved, and she stood by the open door, wondering what to say, feeling awkward. She wanted to ask him for another study session, but, since she'd been so pushy that morning, she wanted it to be him that offered. She could only go against the grain of her Kentucky upbringing to a certain point. When the silence became too drawn out, she gave him a little self-conscious wave and said, "Well, thanks again."

He gave her a look but didn't say anything.

Disappointed, she turned and stepped out into the nearly-always-perfect San Diego weather.

"TJ?" she heard him say.

She turned back to him, her heart beating ninety to nothing. "Yeah?"

"Thursday at ten a.m.?"

She couldn't help the huge grin that spread across her face. "Are you gonna be pissy?"

He smirked. "Probably."

"I guess beggars can't be choosey."

"No," he said softly, "I guess they can't."

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam shut and locked the front door and wheeled himself back to the living area. He had actually enjoyed being with TJ, but he felt drained of energy and wished for once that he could get a good night's sleep without being woken up to shift positions every two hours. He eyed the couch with longing, just wanting to be able to lie down on it and hating the fact that such a simple thing was beyond him.

The pain in his legs was more manageable now, and Sam had to admit that Bobby had been right. Getting his mind off of it for a while by helping TJ with the Latin had helped, had made the pain recede into a dull ache instead of the surges of excruciating agony that he had felt earlier in the morning.

He wondered what he had done to deserve it all. People thought the worst part about being paralyzed was not being able to walk, but that was nothing compared to everything else. It was the bladder and bowel issues, the skin issues-the utter silence of half his body that chipped away at his self-worth. Of course, the silence was sometimes interrupted, like it was today, with screaming.

Why was he cursed to feel absolutely nothing below his navel except for occasional burning pain? How was that fair? If he had to have phantom feelings, why couldn't his nerves conjure up the feeling of soft cotton sheets on his legs or the feeling of pleasantly-hot shower water sluicing over the backs of his thighs and calves? Why did it have to be this horrible, icy-hot pain that was like nothing he'd ever experienced in his life before this injury?

The loss of the lower half of his body was just as heart-wrenching as losing a loved one. The grief for all that he had lost was every bit as agonizing as the loss he felt for Jessica and his dad. He felt like a floating head and torso, incomplete, not himself, and the feeling was just as strong today as it had been when he'd woken up from surgery a year ago. He felt so sad, so adrift, constantly mourning the death of the old Sam Winchester. And, of course, fucking up his shoulder certainly hadn't helped matters. He was almost completely helpless, and he cringed to think what his dad would say, how disappointed he would be.

He felt like such a failure. His dad never would have gotten hurt like Sam had. His dad would never have let a fucking poltergeist ruin his life. His dad would have dodged that knife, would have gotten to the door faster. His dad would have never been screwed up on pills and whiskey and fallen out of the damn shower.

TJ had said she thought Sam was intelligent and even attractive, and he was grateful to her for saying it, but he just couldn't bring himself to believe her. She didn't know all of his embarrassing, shameful secrets. What would she think if she knew what had happened this morning?

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, trying to keep his emotions under control. His throat felt thick and tight, and his eyes stung. He was a fraction of an inch away from breaking, from bawling like an infant. The only thing keeping him from it was the fact that Bobby would be home soon, and Sam would be mortified if Bobby found him in such a state.

"Hello, Sammy."

Sam froze. He knew that voice, and a surge of adrenaline shot through him as he looked up.

Azazel was sitting on the sofa, smiling, bright yellow eyes boring into Sam. His legs were crossed nonchalantly, and he was wearing the same khaki pants, zip-up jacket, and brown loafers that Sam vaguely remembered from before.

Sam was speechless, his heart pumping faster, his ingrained hunting instincts kicking in. A year of paraplegia hadn't dulled years of drilling and training, and for a split second, Sam forgot that he was paralyzed as his brain assessed the situation and tried to figure out a course of action.

His upper body tensed, and he clenched both fists, ready for a fight. The action caused a sharp pain in his bad shoulder, and Sam was brought back to his senses, was reminded that not only could he not move his legs, but his upper body was pretty much useless, too. And then he remembered what Azazel had offered him the last time he'd seen him.

It must have been real after all. Sam wasn't hallucinating now. He was on a painkiller, of course, but his body was acclimated to it, and the effects of the drugs he had to take weren't enhanced by alcohol. He was sober as a judge and had been ever since his fall, and, yet, there was the Yellow-Eyed Demon in front of him, sitting on his sofa as if he were a cherished house guest.

"You look a little down, Sammy. Are you having a bad day?"

Sam's mouth felt dry, and he took a labored swallow. "What do you want?"

The demon gave him a pointed look. "I think you know."

Sam was quiet, unable to say the words that he should say, unable to tell Azazel that he could take his offer and shove it. He wondered again where the Colt was, but he suddenly knew that he wouldn't use it even if he had it, at least not this time.

"What?" said Azazel. "No angry words of denial, no threats to kill me? Are we having a change of heart, Sammy?"

Sam could feel his breathing getting more rapid, and he kept his mouth clamped shut, trying to stay in control, trying not to give in to temptation.

The demon stood and walked slowly around Sam, as if assessing him. "Nice new ride you got there," he taunted. "So invalid chic, so geriatric." He leaned down near Sam's ear. "How's the shoulder, by the way?"

Sam closed his eyes, trying to shut out Azazel, afraid to say anything for fear it might damn him. He was beginning to tremble with the exhausting effort it took to fight his emotions, to fight the overwhelming desire to give in to the demon's deceptively silky voice.

Azazel began to circle Sam's chair again, like a cat stalking its prey. "Are you ready now, Sam? Are you ready for me to get you out of that chair?"

_Yes._ _Yes. Yes_. It was excruciating, the sheer will it took not to say just one little word. He was one word away from freedom, one word away from having his body back, one word away from being a man again in every sense of the word—and he was one word away from becoming a monster.

"Come on, Sam. I know you want to. I can feel you burning with it. You want out of that chair so bad it's killing you."

A choked sound close to a sob escaped Sam, and he felt like he was being tortured. Azazel's words were just as potent as any physical torture he could have devised. Sam was shaking uncontrollably now, and the jarring movement made his shoulder and ribs ache.

"Would it really be so bad to help Lucifer escape from hell? Is the world all that great as it is? Lucifer is not what you think." Azazel had a fanatical gleam in his flaming eyes. "He's a fallen angel. He only wants to set things right." He knelt down to eye level with Sam. "He will reward you well if you lead his army. You would be like a prince. You would be stronger and have more power than you ever dreamed possible."

Sam winced, tormented by the decision before him, and his legs began to spasm along with his shaking upper body.

Azazel looked at Sam's legs in disgust. "Is this what you would choose instead? This life of pain and humiliation? You would choose to live in a body that is no longer your own?"

Sam could feel himself flush, could feel the muscles and tendons in his neck pulled tight as a bow string. He futilely tried to stop the spasms by leaning over and holding his legs down with his left forearm and hand.

"End this now, Sam!" commanded Azazel. "Let me end your suffering!"

Sam looked Azazel in the eye, breathing hard, acquiescence on the tip of his tongue.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a key turning in the lock of the front door.

Azazel's eyes flared with fury, and he stood.

Sam craned his neck to look up at him, still shaking, still tense, and breathing heavily. It was Dean at the door, not Bobby. Sam knew the subtle difference of the jingle Dean's keys made, and he also had a sixth sense where his brother was concerned. He was sure it was Dean, and he didn't know whether to be relieved or enraged that Dean was inadvertently taking the decision from Sam's hands, at least for the time being.

The doorknob began to turn, and Azazel glanced at it and then back to Sam, a maniacal glint in his yellow eyes. "I'll be back, Sammy," he promised. "Oh, and if you should have a stab of conscience and decide to tell Dean or Bobby about this, my proposition will no longer be on the table. Not only will you be stuck in that chair forever, but I might decide to kill Dean and Bobby just on principle alone."

He shot Sam an evil leer and then was gone—but definitely not forgotten.

_**TBC**_

_**A/N: What did you think? I would love to know, but if you don't have time to review, don't worry. I won't be obsessively carrying my phone around in my pocket straining my ears to hear that little ding that tells me I have a review alert. Nope, not me. Not gonna happen. No way.**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: So, this is a long one, which could be good if you like it or bad if it bores you. Hopefully, it's the former!**_

**Chapter 6**

Dean slid the key in the lock of the front door. He had decided to come home for lunch and face the music with Sam. He thought that, maybe, if he caught Sam right after the Latin session with TJ, and, maybe, if it had gone well, then, maybe—just maybe—Sam wouldn't be ready to strangle him when he walked through the door. And if Sam was still angry, at least he wouldn't have had all day to stew in it if Dean came home for lunch. Better to have it out now than to let Sam's anger fester all day.

Dean swung the door open and saw Sam sitting in Big Bertha in the living area, his silhouette to the door. Sam's shoulders were shaking violently, and Dean's fear of retribution was instantly forgotten and replaced by concern. "Sammy?" he barked, and made it to Sam in three long strides.

Sam's head was bowed, and he was breathing hard, like he was out of breath.

Dean knelt in front of him. "Sammy! What's wrong?"

Sam lifted his head up, and the turmoil and anguish in his eyes was almost tangible. "Dean?" he said, and swallowed hard. He grabbed Dean's red Firestone shirt and clenched it in his left fist, like he was grabbing on for dear life. He was still shaking, and even his legs were jiggling up and down in spasms.

Dean was alarmed by the spasticity because Sam usually didn't have much of a problem with it. The range of motion exercises he did daily and the medication he took for it worked pretty well, and the only times Sam had a problem with spasticity were when the medicine was wearing off or if there was some kind of upset to his body. The doctors had told them that the spasticity was usually a way of Sam's reflexes telling him something was wrong below the level of his injury, since he couldn't feel anything in the lower half of his body. It could be an indication of anything from an overfilled bladder to an injury of a leg or foot that had gone undetected.

"Sam, tell me what's wrong. Are you hurt somewhere?" Dean gently extricated his shirt from Sam's fist and immediately started looking Sam's legs over, trying to see any signs of an injury.

Sam shut his eyes and gulped in a breath of air, shaking his head. "No. I'm okay." His voice was strained, almost hoarse, and his fist was now clenched in his lap.

"The hell you are," said Dean. He scrunched up Sam's pant legs one by one and pulled the socks off his feet to get a better look, inspecting them the best he could in spite of the spasms that made the limbs stiff and jerky. There were no signs of cuts, bruises, swelling, or burns. Dean looked up at Sam's face. "I don't see anything. Do you feel sick?"

Sam took in a forcible breath of air, visibly trying to get himself under control. "I'm fine. I'm not sick."

Dean placed a hand on Sam's forehead. It felt a little warm, and his face was flushed, but Dean didn't think it was from a fever. He knew what Sam looked like when he was sick, and this wasn't it. This was Sam when he was upset.

Sam pulled his head back, breaking the contact. "I said I'm fine, Dean." His voice was a little stronger, his breathing starting to slow, the violent shakes morphing into more of a subtle trembling.

Dean almost cringed before he said it because he knew the reaction he would get, but he had to ask, worried that Sam's bladder might be the culprit. "Do you need to take a bathroom break?"

Sam's jaw hardened in an instant, the wall between them slamming back into place. "No."

Dean sighed and looked around the quiet, empty apartment. "Where's Bobby?"

Sam swallowed again. "Store. He'll be back s-soon." The small stutter was an indication that, as much as Sam was trying to regain control, he was still rattled. He self-consciously pushed down on his left thigh—the leg with the most severe spasms—with his left hand, futilely trying to make it stop.

Dean knew that sometimes a change of position helped. "You want to transfer to the sofa?"

Sam exhaled and then nodded.

"Where's the board?"

"Bedroom."

Dean went back to Sam's bedroom and got the transfer board off of Sam's bed and then helped Sam onto the sofa. Sam's legs were still so spastic that it made the transfer precarious and difficult, but they got it done.

Dean helped Sam lay on his left side, a little on his back, feet hanging off the end of the sofa even though his legs were bent a little. Sam's head was supported with the two pillows Bobby used at night when the sofabed was pulled out, and his right shoulder and arm were still secure in the immobilizer. The spasms in Sam's legs began to subside, and his breathing was more even and deeper. He closed his eyes, looking exhausted.

Sam's Sasquatch body took up the entire sofa, of course, so Dean scooted the wood-veneer coffee table back a bit and sat on it like it was a bench, facing Sam. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You wanna tell me what that was about?"

Sam opened his eyes and stared at Dean a moment, and Dean thought that Sam might actually open up to him. The look in Sam's eyes was tormented and full of need, and Dean knew that Sam had something to tell him. He'd seen that look too many times in the past not to know what it meant.

Dean tensed, waiting for Sam to speak.

The moment passed, however, and Sam closed his eyes again. "It's been a bad day, Dean. Just let it go."

Dean felt a sinking feeling in his gut, hating the resignation and emptiness in Sam's voice. "I can't let it go, Sammy. _Talk to me_." Dean stressed the last three words, trying to convey all the things he couldn't actually say—_Talk to me, Sammy. I'm your brother. I love you. I would die for you. I don't want you to be in pain._

Sam's forehead was wrinkled, and he was clearly still troubled.

Dean didn't know whether Sam's distress was from some kind of unseen physical hurt or something emotional—or maybe both—and it galled him that Sam wouldn't tell him. He looked away for a moment, fighting the choking lump in his throat, grieving the loss of the sensitive, open little brother Sam had once been and cursing himself for not protecting Sam, for letting that knife slice his spine.

It was Dean's job to protect Sam, and he'd failed. It was his fault Sam was paralyzed, his fault Sam was miserable. It was his fault Sam hated him now, but it was nothing he didn't deserve.

He drew in a deep breath, pushing away the thoughts that were constantly in the back of his mind, threatening to consume him. It dawned on him that maybe Sam was upset because Dean had sent TJ over, although it seemed like an overreaction, to say the least.

He cleared his throat and looked back at Sam, who appeared at first glance to be asleep. Sam's brow was smooth, now, but the tell-tale tick in his jaw that always seemed to be there these days was still present.

"Is it—are you pissed because I sent TJ over here? Is that why you got so upset?"

"You shouldn't have done that, Dean," said Sam without ever opening his eyes.

It wasn't exactly the volcanic eruption Dean had been expecting. "So, what happened?" Dean prompted.

Sam huffed. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"We went over some things that she was having trouble with, and she left."

"You tutored her?"

Sam cocked open one eye. "Isn't that why you sent her over here?"

Dean was suspicious. Why wasn't Sam angrier? "Well, yeah, but—"

"But nothing." Sam opened his other eye, his expression unreadable. "I tutored her after Bobby helped me with my therapy."

"So why aren't you tearing my head off right now?" asked Dean, wary.

Sam closed his eyes again and said tiredly, "What good would it do? You'd just grow another one."

The corners of Dean's mouth curved upward, but he couldn't bring himself to smile. Something was going on here. "You were doing a pretty damn good impression of an earthquake when I got here, Sam. It was like you were afraid or something."

Again, the hardening of the jaw. "It was just spasms, Dean. I don't know what caused it. It's over." Sam's legs were once again unnaturally still, as if to emphasize Sam's point.

Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. It probably wasn't a good time to bring up the morning Sam had hurt his shoulder, but Dr. Salazar's words about how Sam's injuries didn't jive with the fall he took had been eating at Dean, and now there was Sam's obvious freak-out when Dean had walked in the door. "Sam," said Dean, "what happened the morning you fell and hurt your shoulder?"

Sam's expression was guarded. "Why are you asking me that now?"

Dean studied Sam's face. "I meant to ask you a long time ago, but right after the surgery, you were either out of it on painkillers or asleep, and then you started all the therapy and there was always a doctor or a nurse or somebody in your room. I went back to work after you were released, and there just never seemed to be a good time."

Sam swallowed. "I don't remember anything."

"Nothing?"

"No. Isn't it pretty obvious what happened?"

"Dr. Salazar didn't think so."

Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"

"He said falling from the height of the shower chair to the floor shouldn't have fractured your shoulder and caused such a severe concussion, even though there were two lumps on your head and it appeared you had fallen twice. It takes a lot to fracture a shoulder, especially for a guy your age, and it would have taken a fall from a much higher point or a much harder impact to cause an injury like yours."

Sam seemed to grow paler, and his frown deepened. His eyes shifted away from Dean for a second before he said, "I don't know, Dean. I don't really remember anything."

"Sam, I know I'm on your shit list right now, but if something is fucking with you—"

"Nothing's fucking with me, Dean! I fell out of the fucking shower because I was a pathetic, fucking moron! What do you want me to tell you?"

"The truth!"

"I don't know why my shoulder was fractured! I...don't...remember," Sam enunciated, as if Dean were too slow to understand. "I don't know what Dr. Salazar is talking about, but the fact that my injuries were worse than they should have been doesn't surprise me. It's just par for the course, Dean, just something else that went wrong on a list of many."

"Just because we've stopped hunting the fuglies doesn't mean they've stopped hunting us, Sam. Have you—" he halted, unsure of how to say his next words. "Was it a vision, Sam? Is that what got you so upset this morning?"

Sam averted his eyes for a split second, and there was a flash of unease on his features that no one else but Dean would have noticed.

Dean was positive that Sam was hiding something.

Sam shook his head. "I can't even keep up with you, Dean. One minute we're talking about my leg spasms, then it's the morning I hurt my shoulder, and now you think I'm having visions? Make up your mind!"

Dean stood abruptly, unable to hide his irritation. He ran his hands through his short hair and said, "Something's going on with you, and I'm just trying to figure out what it is."

Sam clenched his jaw. "Nothing's going on with me, other than the obvious. In case you haven't noticed, Dean, I'm a fucking cripple."

Dean had had enough, could feel months of pent up heartache and frustration exploding to the surface. "Don't you fucking call yourself that, Sammy!" he roared.

Sam drew in a jagged breath and stared at the ceiling, gripping one of the pillows supporting his head with his left fist, moisture welling in his eyes.

Dean's chest was heaving, and he could feel the muscles cording in his neck, could feel heat in his face. He swallowed and forced himself to calm down, but he couldn't keep the emotion from his voice. "Don't you ever say that in front of me again."

Sam slowly closed his eyes, brows drawn together in a look of utter desolation and despair. "It's the truth," he whispered harshly.

"No, it's not," Dean denied, equally as harsh. He could almost feel his heart cracking in two, hating the way Sam saw himself. He reached out to touch Sam, wanting to comfort him, but his hand hovered uselessly over Sam's bad shoulder, which was ensconced in the immobilizer. Sam was lying on his good shoulder, and his left hand was still white-knuckling the pillow. Where could Dean touch his brother that wouldn't hurt him or that Sam could feel?

Dean knew he was about to enter major chick-flick territory, in addition to possible gaydom, but he didn't care. He reached toward Sam's face, a hair's breadth away from gently palming Sam's cheek.

Sam opened his eyes and saw where Dean's hand was, registering Dean's intent. For a moment, Dean saw his little brother looking back at him, eyes filled with need, and time seemed to stop; but then Sam's face shuttered, and he closed his eyes again. "I'm tired, Dean," he said in dismissal.

Dean remained where he was, reaching out, wanting so badly to reconnect with Sam, but the look on Sam's face was anything but receptive. Dean reluctantly withdrew his hand and sat back down on the coffee table, defeated. He rubbed his fingers over his mouth and tried to explain. "Yellow Eyes is still out there, Sam. You're...I don't want him coming after you. I don't want him hurting you. If he knows that you're..."

Sam eyed him with cynical contempt. "If he knows that I'm what, _Dean_?"

Dean didn't respond, trying to put together the right words without proving Sam right, without implying Sam was a cripple. It was true that Sam was more vulnerable, but Dean didn't mean it the way Sam thought he did.

"Yeah. That's what I thought," said Sam with dark vindication.

"Dammit, Sam! Yes. You're a cripple. Is that what you want to hear? Okay. Fine. You're a goddamn cripple—an _emotional_ cripple. You're your own worst enemy!"

"Fuck off, Dean."

"You're depressed, and your self-esteem is for shit, Sam. If Yellow Eyes finds that out, he could use it against you. That's all I meant. He knows shit, Sam. You saw how he messed with our heads in that cabin with Dad. He can fuck with your mind."

Sam's entire upper body stiffened, and it was clear that Dean had hit a nerve, he just wasn't sure which one.

Sam's left fist clenched and unclenched on the pillow, and Sam closed his eyes. "Just leave me alone, Dean," he breathed.

Dean rested his head in his hands a moment and then stood up, looking down on his brother.

Sam's forehead was creased, and his eyes were still tightly shut. He looked haggard. It was obvious their conversation had taken a lot out of him, not to mention whatever had upset him that Dean had walked in on.

Dean would leave Sam alone for now, but his instincts told him he should warn Bobby that something was going on. Even more importantly, it was time to get out the Colt.

**XXXXXXXX**

Bobby was in the kitchen making turkey sandwiches for lunch. Sam was helping TJ again with her Latin, and she usually stayed for lunch after they finished. Surprisingly, Sam had eventually made adjustments to his PT schedule to mesh with TJ's downtime from class and work, and they had been spending a lot of time together. On the days when her class load was sparse, Bobby had noticed that, this week, she had started coming over just to hang out, too, and Sam seemed to actually look forward to when she came over. Bobby had even heard her trying to talk Sam into going with her to various campus events or just an outing to the beach or to a movie, but so far she had been unsuccessful. Bobby had no doubt, though, that, in time, she would wear Sam down.

Dean had been concerned that something was eating at Sam—something possibly supernatural—after the day he'd come home and found Sam so upset, and, at first, Bobby had agreed with him. But that had been three weeks ago, and Sam's disposition seemed to be slowly improving. Sam still had his moments of brooding, but overall, he seemed less morose.

For once, something had gone right, and Sam's orthopedic surgeon had said that Sam's shoulder was healing nicely. After only three weeks instead of four, Sam had finally gotten rid of the constrictive immobilizer and was wearing a regular sling, although he still had to wear it at all times, except for in the shower and PT, just as he had the immobilizer. The difference was that he was able to use his right hand a little bit because it wasn't strapped tightly to his body, and just that little bit of freedom gave him back a little more independence, although Bobby still had to help him with transfers and getting dressed.

TJ was a big help, too. She got Sam's mind off of his problems, and the more time she spent with him, the more he seemed to find himself. TJ had a way about her that put Sam at ease. She possessed a Southern charm that was down to earth and practical, yet she teased him relentlessly, and he teased her right back.

She was extremely intelligent, too, despite her apparent mental block against Latin, and she gave Sam a run for his money in the brains department. It was clear as day to Bobby that she was smitten with Sam, but she was smart enough to not let Sam know it. She was first and foremost his friend, and Bobby admired the fact that she seemed to know that was what Sam needed more than anything else right now.

Bobby glanced at the two of them through the extra-wide opening between the kitchen and living/dining area. Their heads were leaning toward each other, TJ's brow furrowed in concentration as Sam pointed to something in her textbook. She didn't have classic beauty, but she had a charisma and a certain zest for life that was attractive, that seemed to draw a person in.

She always wore her hair in a ponytail, but a few wispy tendrils of the dark-brown, sort of auburn locks were always falling down around her face, framing it. She had doe-like brown eyes, long lashes, and freckles across the bridge of her nose that added a sometimes saucy, playful air to her facial expressions.

She always wore baggy clothing, usually a sweatshirt, jeans, and flip-flops or sometimes her Shorty's uniform and sneakers if she was going to go straight to work after a session with Sam. She was tall and thin, and there didn't seem to be any reason that Bobby could see why she wouldn't want to wear shirts that actually fit, but who was he to judge? He was no expert on fashion, especially ladies fashion, but he mused that she might be even more attractive if she didn't always seem to be trying to hide her body.

She said something funny to Sam, and he grinned, and Bobby was glad that they'd been seeing a lot more of that lately instead of Sam's jaw stubbornly set in stone.

Bobby put the finishing touches on the sandwiches and said, "All right, you two. Grub's ready."

"Thank God," said TJ with relief, and she immediately started packing up her books into her gray backpack.

Sam rolled his eyes but then smiled with amusement. It was no secret that it always made TJ happy when it was time to put the Latin textbook away.

TJ peered through the doorway at Bobby. "Need some help?"

"Yeah. You wanna get the drinks?" asked Bobby, as he juggled three plain white plates with sandwiches on them.

"Sure." She set her backpack near the wall and looked at Sam. "I'll get the drinks. You carry the chips and napkins?"

Sam nodded. Pushing on the joystick of his chair, he rolled out from the table and followed TJ into the kitchen. Soon, they came back out of the kitchen, TJ carrying two glasses of ice water for Sam and herself and a Coke under her chin for Bobby. Sam's lap was laden with a can of Pringles, a bag of Cheetos, and three paper towels, which he steadied with his slinged right hand while he controlled the power chair with his left.

They got situated at the table, and TJ took a bite of her sandwich. "Mm, Bobby," she said with a look of rapture on her face, "this is the best sandwich I've ever had."

"Thank you, TJ," said Bobby around a bite of his own sandwich.

One corner of Sam's mouth curved upward. "Judging by the look on your face, TJ, I wouldn't be surprised if you took it out for dinner and a movie."

TJ gave Sam a calculating look. "How about I take _you_ out for dinner and a movie on Friday if I pass my test tomorrow?"

Sam looked uneasy.

TJ rolled her eyes. "I'm not asking you to marry me, dork. It's just a friend thing. I just want to thank you for helping me with my Latin."

Sam took a sip of his water and then said, "You can just say, 'Thanks, Sam.' That would make me _much_ happier."

TJ's mouth tightened in exasperation. "That would also be _much_ lamer. Come on, Sam," she pleaded.

"No," he said, as he took a bite of his sandwich.

She looked to Bobby for help, large brown eyes and freckles almost irresistible. "Make him come with me, Bobby," she entreated, her accent slipping through.

"Leave me out of this, kiddo," replied Bobby, but he shot a reproachful look at Sam, letting Sam know he was on TJ's side.

Sam exhaled and leaned back, wiping his mouth with the paper towel that had been on his lap. "Okay. I'll go on one condition," he stated.

"What?" asked TJ.

"You have to ace your test."

She arched an eyebrow. "You don't think I can?"

"I know you can pass, but I'm talking about _acing_ it—a perfect score."

TJ eyed him dubiously. "A hundred?"

"Yep."

"And if I do, you'll come with me?" she reiterated.

"Yes."

"And you won't be all surly and broody?"

Sam grinned. "Don't push your luck."

"All right," she said, and threw her wadded up paper towel on her plate, as if throwing down a gauntlet. She scooted her chair back, picked up her plate and glass of water, and headed toward the kitchen.

Sam frowned and gave Bobby a perplexed look.

Bobby raised his brows as if to say, _Don't ask me._

She came back to the dining area and picked up her backpack and purse and hoisted them onto her shoulder. "Thanks, Bobby, as always, for an awesome lunch."

"You're welcome."

"You're leaving?" groused Sam. "You only ate two bites."

Her eyes darted away for a second. "I'm not that hungry."

Sam's brow furrowed. "Where are you going?"

She gave him a pointed look. "To study." Then, chin lifted in lofty determination, she made her way out the door and left without another word.

Bobby held in his mirth and said matter-of-factly, "Looks like you're going to the movies on Friday." He had no doubt TJ would nail the test.

Sam stared at the front door for a moment and then turned his attention to Bobby. With a wry smile, he said, "Yeah. I guess I am."

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam eyed the little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant with trepidation as he and TJ were nearing it. She was walking next to him, her tall body lithe and surprisingly shapely in the more fitted, shimmery pink top, light cardigan, and jeans she wore, although she was a little too thin. She looked good, though, and Sam wondered why she always wore such baggy clothing most of the time. She'd worn her hair down for once, too, and it fell in a silky, dark-chestnut cascade just past her shoulders.

Of course, TJ had aced her Latin test. She'd actually scored 112 on it after her professor added the extra-credit points for the optional bonus essay that she'd written. She had triumphantly texted Sam—in Latin, no less—the time she would pick him up for their "date" as soon as she'd seen her score posted. Sam had no choice but to go, but he'd dreaded it. There were many reasons he didn't like to go out, but, so far, things had gone surprisingly well. He suspected that TJ had scouted things out first to make sure that Sam would have easy access to everything.

Bobby had shown TJ how to help Sam transfer from the chair to her old, teal-colored Honda Accord using the transfer board. Luckily, the height of the seat in the Honda hadn't been too different from that of the power chair, so the transfers had been relatively easy. Bobby had also shown her how to take the power chair apart so that it would fold up and fit in her car and how to reassemble it. Sam had wondered if she might lose some of her enthusiasm once she saw what a hassle it was to take him out anywhere, but she had seemed unfazed by it all, as if it were something she did every day.

They had gone to see a screening of the artistic, subtitled film _Wings of Desire_, by the German director Wim Wenders. Sam had found himself engrossed in the movie, an observation of humankind from the point of view of angels. The movie had started at six and lasted over two hours, but Sam hadn't noticed the passing of time.

After the movie, there had been the awkward issue—for him, anyway—of how he would go to the bathroom, but now that he had more freedom of movement with his right hand, he'd found an accessible bathroom stall and cathed himself. He was able to use a disposable catheter and latex gloves that he carried in his wheelchair backpack while sitting in his wheelchair. It wasn't ideal to cath from his chair, but he couldn't make the transfer to the toilet, so he didn't have a choice. The most difficult part was getting his pants down and up, since he couldn't lift his hips, but he'd slowly and painstakingly managed to get it done without taxing his right hand and shoulder too much. At least he wouldn't have to worry about it again for several more hours, if he was careful of what and how much he drank.

The whole process had taken forever, and he had been embarrassed that TJ had to wait so long for him; but, as usual, she'd looked at him like she didn't know what he was talking about when he'd apologized for taking so much time. She had a way of making his difficulties seem ordinary and not a big deal, just like Bobby, but Sam always felt the most at ease with TJ. It was weird that he felt so comfortable with her, but maybe it was because she hadn't known him _before_ and didn't have any memories of who he had once been. Of course, she also didn't know all the details of his personal needs, but he got the feeling that she would understand if she knew. The more time he spent with her, the more he felt like he could be himself and could tell her almost anything.

The only thing that put a damper on things was the offer Azazel had made. It was always hanging over Sam's head, but sometimes, when he was with TJ, he felt stronger, like maybe he was starting to get a handle on things, that maybe he could resist Azazel's proposal after all. He kept reminding himself that it was innocent civilians like TJ who would be hurt if he couldn't resist the demon's deal. He still didn't know if he could ever really adjust to being paralyzed, but, lately, things hadn't seemed quite so hopeless. He wondered how long Azazel would wait before he came back for an answer, and it made Sam nervous that the demon seemed to be biding his time.

Tonight was the first time Sam had really gone out to do something fun since his injury over a year ago, and he was surprised that he was actually enjoying himself. So far, he hadn't even felt that conspicuous, but as they approached the restaurant and he saw the three steep steps leading up to the front door, he knew that was about to change.

If he'd been in his manual chair, he could have gotten up the steps with a little help from TJ, but he wasn't sure about the power chair with its smaller wheels. He hadn't been anywhere in it but the hospital where every place he needed to go was accessible, and he wasn't sure about the chair's capabilities. Then there was the issue of maneuvering between tables once he was in the restaurant. The place seemed awfully small, and he had a feeling everything was going to be a tight squeeze.

"So," said TJ with a grin, "here we are. I thought Italian food would be appropriate, since, you know, there's the Latin connection."

Sam stared at the stairs uncomfortably and could feel himself stiffen.

She looked down at him, seeming to sense his wariness, and glanced at the stairs. "It's not Mt. Everest, Sam. It's stairs."

"What's the difference?"

She arched her brows and drawled with attitude, "So we find us some Sherpas."

"TJ—"

"Hold on. I'll be right back."

Before Sam could protest, she had already jogged up the steps and disappeared inside.

Sam was annoyed for the first time that night. This was going to be an ordeal, plus, it was already after eight, and he was breaking his rule about not eating or drinking anything after that time. He'd have to be really careful how much he drank, and he cringed at the thought of waking up with wet sheets again. At least he'd probably get into bed late, so he'd be cathing later before he went to bed, too.

It was tiresome that his life pretty much revolved around when he needed to take a leak. He could feel his stomach tighten in despair at the thought, and now he was about to be a spectacle for anyone in the restaurant who happened to look out the plate glass window because he couldn't make it up three fucking steps.

TJ came back out with a big smile on her face, followed by two wiry Italian guys who were probably waiters. She took one look at Sam's expression and rolled her eyes. Ignoring his immense displeasure, she said, "Sam, this is Marco and Robert. They're going to help us get you inside."

Sam clenched his teeth.

She crouched down to eye level with him, putting a hand on each armrest of his wheelchair, her big brown eyes confidently holding his gaze. "Don't freak out," she said in a voice meant only for his ears. "It's not a big deal. Three steps are not going to keep us from eating at the best Italian restaurant in San Diego."

Sam wasn't mollified. "I don't want to do this, TJ. Please, let's just go somewhere else."

"No," she stubbornly. "And don't give me those puppy-dog eyes, either, Sam Winchester." She then stood up and motioned to Robert and Marco. To Sam, she said, "Tell them how you want them to grab the chair so they don't accidentally dump you out."

Sam could feel warmth travel up his neck and face, and he felt both helpless and angry. However, he didn't want to call more attention to himself, so he quietly instructed the waiters on how to hold his chair, and they got him up the steps without much trouble.

Marco held the door open, and TJ stepped through, followed by Sam. As Sam had predicted, once they entered the dim, candlelit interior of the restaurant, there were about eight tables crammed into the small establishment, and it would be a very tight squeeze for Sam to maneuver his chair between them. To make matters worse, they were all occupied except for a two-person table in a far corner of the room.

Marco, who also seemed to have maitre d' duties, wrung his hands, clearly upset that they weren't prepared to handle Sam's needs.

Sam gritted his teeth harder and could feel the muscles in his neck and shoulders tense.

TJ was as calm as ever and said to Marco, "If everyone could just scoot their chairs over a little, I think we'll fit through just fine." She said it in her soft accent, polite and smooth as butter in that way that Southerners were known for. As regal as a queen, she walked toward the table in the back corner, asking the people sitting at the four tables impeding Sam's way if they wouldn't mind moving their chairs, and in some cases, the whole table, over just a few inches to make room for him.

Everyone seemed happy to oblige her, and conversations stopped as Sam followed her. He stared at the table that was his destination, not making eye contact with anyone he passed.

Robert scrambled to move one of the chairs away from their table and then pulled out the other chair for TJ. She sat down, and Robert unfolded her napkin and politely handed it to her.

Sam stiffly pulled up to the empty side of the table and was chagrined to find that the armrests from his chair and his knees wouldn't fit underneath the table. He would be just out of range to eat.

"Can we take the armrests off?" asked TJ.

Sam exhaled, and gave TJ a look of irritation. "Yes. They flip up out of the way, remember? But I can't take off my knees."

She poked her cheek with her tongue, quirking her mouth, and then said, "Can't you just take your feet off the foot thingies and put them on the floor? That should lower your knees enough that you'll fit."

Sam was a little taken aback by her suggestion. It was so simple, and yet it had never occurred to him to do that before. Of course, come to think of it, he hadn't been anywhere except Shorty's and one required outing to a restaurant in Iowa to "graduate" from rehab, and he hadn't encountered this problem. He would have thought they'd have taught him such an easy solution in rehab, but he'd realized the first week out on his own that there were a lot of things they hadn't covered.

Sam glared at TJ but acquiesced. He showed Robert the button to push that released the armrests, and Robert flipped them up with ease, since it was a little tricky for Sam to do one-handed. Then, Sam grabbed underneath each knee and lifted his legs one at a time with his left hand, taking his feet off the footplates, and made sure the soles of his shoes were on the floor. Next, he leaned over and folded up the footplates. Finally, looking up at Robert and feeling self-conscious, he said, "Okay. Would you mind, uh, pushing me closer now?"

Robert smiled politely and said, "Of course."

Once up to the table, Sam raised the white tablecloth covering it and looked underneath to make sure his feet weren't at an awkward angle, since he couldn't feel them, and adjusted them accordingly.

TJ gave Sam a look of smug satisfaction. "See? Easy as pie." When she said "pie," it sounded like "pah."

If he hadn't been so out of sorts, it would have made him laugh, but he felt more like squishing a pie in her face at the moment.

Robert unfolded Sam's napkin as he had done for TJ, and Sam took it and folded it on his lap.

The conversation and bustle of the restaurant began again once it was evident that TJ and Sam were settled without any further obstacles.

Marco and Robert fawned over them, handing them menus and asking if they'd like to see the wine list, which both TJ and Sam declined.

Robert promptly came back with glasses of ice water for both of them and fresh sourdough bread rolls that smelled delicious and made Sam's mouth water, despite his deteriorating mood. TJ ordered the chicken Marsala, Sam ordered the pasta primavera, and they both chose the house salad as the first course.

After Robert left, TJ tried to engage Sam in conversation, but he wasn't going to let her off the hook that easily, and answered mostly in monosyllables.

When Robert brought their salads, TJ sighed and said, "So, are you gonna be mad at me the rest of the evening?"

"Probably."

She looked down, a little guilty, and said, "I'm sorry. I forgot to tell them when I made the reservation that a table near the door would be better."

Sam was incredulous. "A table near the door? TJ, this place isn't accessible for me at all, but you knew that, didn't you? You brought me here anyway."

She shrugged. "Yeah. The food is to die for, and I thought you'd like it."

"TJ, places like this are the reason I don't like going out."

"I know," she said, but she didn't seem sorry. "I wanted you to see that you could survive it anyway. It's all about making do—adapting."

Sam could feel his blood pressure rising. "I know I can survive it," he said through clenched teeth, "but this is...hard for me. Why would you intentionally embarrass me like this?"

"Sam, why should you be embarrassed? They're the ones that aren't compliant with the Americans with Disabilities Act. It's not like they don't want you here, though. Didn't you see how upset Marco was that they weren't geared up for you? They're just as embarrassed as you are."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

She ignored Sam's question. "I think you'll forgive them, though, once you taste the bread." She held the bread basket up, offering it to him, being deliberately obtuse. "Besides," she added, "maybe we'll get a free dessert because they feel so bad about it."

"How can you make light of it, TJ? Not only is it embarassing, but we interrupted the dinners of all these people," he said, encompassing the room with his fork.

"Oh, please. You're making a mountain out of a mole hill. They were happy to accommodate you."

"They felt sorry for me!"

She shrugged. "Maybe some did, but so what? Most people just want to help. At least, that's how it is where I come from. Why can't you just let them?"

"I don't want to need help," hissed Sam, surprising himself by admitting it.

She gave him a look of understanding and said softly, "I know, but we all need help from time to time." Then she paused, and her expression became challenging. "Before you were paralyzed, what did you think when you saw someone in a wheelchair?"

"What?"

"You heard me. Did you feel sorry for them?"

Sam inhaled, feeling himself tighten.

She arched a brow as if to say, _Well?_

"Maybe," he gritted out.

"Would you have wanted to help them if they needed it or if you _thought_ they needed it?"

A hesititation, and then, "Yes."

"So I guess that makes you a hypocrite, doesn't it?"

Sam sat back in his chair, unable to believe she could be so insensitive about it all. "How can you say that?"

"How can you begrudge them for just wanting to make life easier for you, even if it does stem from pity? They don't know what it's like to be you, Sam, but you have the advantage of knowing what it's like to be them."

He sat there for a moment, unyielding, not wanting what she'd said to sink in. He'd spent so much time resenting every able-bodied person around him that it was hard to put himself in their shoes, precisely because he wanted to be in their shoes so badly.

She shrugged. "Look, all I'm saying is cut them some slack and stop getting so uptight if you need to ask for help. It doesn't mean you're weak. Think of it as teaming up with someone. There's strength in numbers."

Sam looked down and viciously speared an olive on his salad, wanting to be scornful of TJ's Pollyanna-style wisdom. Winchesters didn't ask for help. Deep down, though, he had the disconcerting feeling that she was right.

They ate the rest of their salads in silence. Sam mulled over what TJ had said, and TJ, as always, seemed to know when to stop pushing and was quiet.

Robert came and went, catering to their every need, and when he brought their entrees, Sam had to admit it was possibly the best pasta he'd ever tasted in his life. The combination of the extra virgin olive oil, fresh vegetables, homemade linguine, and freshly grated Parmesan cheese was simple, yet delicious. It was a little difficult eating the long noodles with the fork in his left hand, but he had gotten pretty adept with it in the weeks since his shoulder surgery and managed.

TJ ate her Marsala with intense gusto, and Sam realized he'd never seen her eat so much before. She never ate more than half a sandwich whenever she had lunch with Bobby and him. She pulled apart another roll, buttered part of it, and popped it in her mouth. Breaking the silence between them, she said, "Mm. I think that's, like, the eleventh roll I've eaten tonight."

Sam lifted his eyebrows as if he didn't really care.

She exhaled in frustration and stared at him for a moment. "Sam, look around you. Is anyone even paying attention to us?"

He gave a furtive glance around the room. Everyone at the other tables seemed to be in their own little worlds, enjoying lively conversation, good food, and wine. He took a bite of his pasta, not answering.

She gave him a sarcastic look. "Since you seem to have forgotten how to speak, I'll answer for you. No. No one gives a damn what you and I are doing, except Marco and Robert, and that's because they want us to enjoy ourselves."

He kept chewing.

She leaned toward him. "Is your food good?"

He swallowed his bite. "It's okay," he said, noncommittal.

She narrowed her eyes at him, the impish freckles across her nose and cheekbones contrasting with her serious manner. "Liar. It's awesome, and you know it."

It was hard to stay mad at TJ, and he could feel his anger and indignation begin to fade.

She pressed on. "Did you enjoy the movie?"

He sighed and felt himself relax a little. "Yes."

She looked pleased.

"Did you?" Sam asked, suspecting that she'd been bored to tears by it.

She avoided his eyes and said in an oddly pitched voice, "Yeah. It was great."

He held in a smile. "Wanna see it again?"

She looked up at him with a deadpan expression, but there was an almost undetectable upward curve of her mouth. "I'd rather stick a fork in my eye."

He laughed. "Why did you choose it, then?"

She suddenly became fascinated with her bread for a moment, and when she looked up, she gave him an enigmatic smile. "Because I knew you'd like it."

He locked his gaze onto her, unsure of how to respond. It was a simple thing to say, but something poignant seemed to pass between them.

She waved her piece of bread, as if to diffuse the heaviness of the moment. "I'm thanking you, remember? This evening is for you, for all the time you spent helping me, and I figured I couldn't go wrong with a foreign film. I didn't think you'd enjoy _My Life as a Molecule_ quite as much."

He grinned, touched and a little amazed at how well she knew him after only three weeks. "You're welcome."

"So, aside from a few _minor _glitches—"

Sam rolled his eyes.

"—wouldn't you say tonight has been—dare I say it—_fun_?"

"You're gonna make me go out again if I say yes, aren't you?"

"Yep."

He paused, wondering what he was about to get himself into, and then cocked his head to one side in concession. "Yes, TJ. Tonight has been fun."

She smiled with delight, and it glowed brighter than all the candles in the room put together.

Sam was mesmerized by it, and for the first time, he realized that TJ was really kind of...pretty.

_**TBC**_

_**A/N: So what did you guys think? Are you still liking TJ? You guys made me and my phone very happy last time, so please review!**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: Warning-eating disorder coming up. Also, I borrowed the scene and some of the dialogue from the episode where Yellow Eyes gets in Sam's dream and takes him to see the night his mom was killed. I revamped it to fit this story's purposes.**_

**Chapter 7**

TJ threw her car keys on the tiny counter that separated her miniscule kitchen from the living room of her even more miniscule apartment. It was a cheap, one-bedroom efficiency a few miles from the SDSU campus and Shorty's, where, luckily, she still had a job.

She had narrowly escaped getting fired from the bar and grill after the whole Grapes of Wrath incident, despite Chanel's best efforts to get her canned. Dean had worked his magic on Katherine and Phil, and TJ had survived yet another pissed off customer. Even better, Chanel and her lackeys had boycotted the place after they saw that TJ still worked there, making TJ's job a lot easier.

Dean had given her a stern lecture, however, about how she had to watch her mouth, and she had realized that it wasn't just herself that was affected every time she got into trouble. It was a hassle for Dean, too—a hassle that TJ felt bad for causing him—and she had been a good girl, biting her tongue more times than she could count in order to keep them both out of the line of fire.

She went into her bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. As usual, she was unimpressed with what she saw—straight, lank brown hair, unremarkable brown eyes, annoying freckles that refused to be covered by any kind of makeup. She closed her eyes, wishing with all her might that she had at least one feature that wasn't so plain Jane and that might actually be called pretty—something that would make Sam attracted to her.

She was tired of always being the best friend, just one of the guys—especially with Sam. Her feelings for him were more intense than she'd ever felt for any guy, even her six-week first "love" that she'd had in high school. She wanted to be near Sam every minute of the day, but, at the same time, it was torture when she was with him.

She wanted to touch him the way a girlfriend touches a boyfriend, to touch her lips to his, to tell him how awesome he was, but she knew it would be the death of their friendship and she wasn't willing to risk it. She'd been there and done that. Instead, she constantly had to restrain herself, had to pretend that she thought of him in the same way he thought of her, had to pretend that she wasn't falling in love with him.

It had been around thirty minutes since she'd taken Sam home, and it was past midnight. The rest of their evening had gone by mostly without a hitch. Of course, they'd had to reverse the process of getting Sam in the restaurant to get him out again, but, since the tables and chairs in his way had already been moved, it wasn't as much of a production when he rolled out of the place. Despite the usual tick in his jaw, he hadn't seemed quite as uptight when Marco and Robert had helped him down the stairs, either.

Sam was so smart—brilliant, in fact—and he had so much potential and so much to give that TJ was making it her mission in life to make him see that he could still have fun and be happy, even if he had to do it from a wheelchair. She knew with Sam, though, that just telling him that wouldn't do him any good. He was too stubborn and angsty for that, so she would have to _show_ him, like she had tonight.

She'd made sure that most of the places they'd gone were accessible and knew it had been insensitive of her to take him to a restaurant that wasn't, but she'd done it on purpose to show that he could deal with unforeseen obstacles and that he would survive even if every little thing wasn't planned out. It was a fact of life that sometimes he just needed help—everyone does—and she figured the sooner he got over it, the better. If she'd pissed him off a little, so be it. It was worth the risk of alienating him in order to hear him admit, albeit a little grudgingly, that he'd had a good time.

If anything, she was the one that shouldn't have been at the restaurant tonight, not him. She'd been very bad.

She took off her cardigan and shirt, leaving on her jeans and bra, and turned sideways to look at her stomach in the mirror. It was sticking out five miles, along with the lower part of her abdomen—her pooch—and she felt the sickening guilt begin to consume her. She was so full from dinner it was painful. She pulled on the skin of her pooch, and it stretched out over the waistband of her jeans. _Muffin top_, she thought with disgust.

She'd been so good for the last month, had maintained her strict diet of five hundred calories a day. In fact, she ate less than that on most days, and she hadn't binged in weeks—until tonight. It had been the bread. The smell of the rolls had been irresistible, and she'd almost been shaking with anticipation when Robert had first set them on their table. She'd jonesed for them like an addict joneses for heroin, and the first bite of the warm, crusty bread had given her a euphoric high that she imagined must be a little like actually taking heroin. It had been hard to hide her gluttony from Sam, but, in a way, it was a blessing that she'd ticked him off. He had been too preoccupied with his indignation and annoyance to notice.

She'd lost count of how many rolls she'd eaten, not to mention how many calories must have been in the Marsala. She was tempted to look it up on her calorie journal web site, but she couldn't make herself heap even more guilt on tonight. Besides, she didn't need to look it up to know that she'd gone way over her limit. She glanced at the toilet, wanting desperately to purge everything she'd eaten, wanting to wipe the slate clean.

She hated sticking her fingers down her throat, though, hated the way some of the vomit inadvertently came out her nose instead of her mouth, hated the way some of the toilet water would splash in her face when the food that had been ejected from her body hit it. There was also the issue of the tiny dots she'd get on her eyelids and around her eyes from blood vessels that had burst, even though most people assumed they were freckles unless they knew what to look for and knew her past history.

She wouldn't do it tonight. It had been too many hours since she had eaten and the food had already begun to digest; it would be too hard on her body. She should have excused herself and done it right away in the bathroom at the restuarant, but she was afraid Sam would figure out somehow what she had done, like maybe her breath would smell or something, even though she always carried a toothbrush and toothpaste in her purse, a washcloth to wash her face, and makeup to refresh once she was done.

Making herself barf was a disgusting thing to do and didn't really make her feel any better about herself. It made her feel defective, made her into someone with an eating disorder. She would die if Sam ever found out, would never be able to face him again. It was her dirty little secret. No one knew, and she was bound and determined to keep it that way.

She'd been a yo-yo dieter since age eleven, gaining and losing the same twenty-five pounds over and over again until she'd gone to college, where she'd finally gotten a handle on it. She'd finally found a way to resist temptation for the most part, except for the occasional binge and purge.

The purging had started when she was a freshman and had escalated so badly her sophomore year that she'd gotten sick, and, because she still lived in the dorms, her residential adviser had found a counselor for her. She'd done what the counselor asked, had kept a journal with all her feelings of self-hatred toward her body and a food journal, had started eating again to appease everyone, but, deep down, she knew she was still an Amazon.

At five-foot, eleven-and-a-half inches—technically _not_ six foot—the charts said she was supposed to weigh between 148 and 162 pounds, but she still felt gigantic and fat at the minimum weight recommended, had felt her "healthy" weight was really a lie, a conspiracy by everyone else to keep her fat. She'd done what they wanted, had stayed precisely at that weight and not a pound more, and they'd pronounced her cured, but she'd just been waiting until she was free of them—the counselor, her parents, her friends—to start again.

Her roommate had graduated last semester, and instead of finding another one, she'd rented the small efficiency so she could live alone, so no one would notice her eating habits or her purging habits. She'd blown off all her old friends, had told them so many times that she was just too bogged down with work and classes to go out that they had finally stopped calling.

At first it had just been five more pounds she'd wanted to lose, but when she'd reached that goal, she'd still been fat, could still see the bulges, still felt like a Goliath. In the last few months, she'd lost twenty-five pounds, but it wasn't enough. She knew her parents would tell her she should stop, knew they would say something was wrong, but they were in Kentucky, and it would be at her graduation in a few months before she saw them again. They would say she was anorexic or bulimic or both, that she needed help; but she'd gotten "help" before, and she knew what she was supposed to do. She just didn't want to do it.

Besides, while she would admit that she maybe had anorexic and bulimic tendencies, she still ate, and she only purged when it was absolutely necessary. If she had an eating disorder, it wasn't severe, and she could handle it. She would stop dieting eventually. She was almost there. If she could just avoid binges like tonight, she would probably already be at her goal weight, although her body seemed to hold onto every pound now with a vengeance. It enraged her, this lifelong battle she'd had with her hulk of a body, the way her body refused to cooperate with her, but she was finally winning. She couldn't do anything about her height, but she could damn sure control how much she weighed.

Each day she went without cheating, without binging, she felt a triumphant sense of power. She felt successful and in control, even though, sometimes, the hunger would literally bring her to her knees, like it almost had the first night she'd talked to Sam at Shorty's. She'd come really close to passing out that night, but that was because she'd been so busy that day, hadn't really eaten anything, and she'd been more careful since then to make sure that she at least consumed two hundred calories a day.

It wore her down, sometimes, constantly fighting the painful, addictive hunger. Some days, it was all she could think about. She would be eating lunch and obsessing about what she would eat for dinner at the same time. It was like being an alcoholic, except, in her opinion, it was harder, because she couldn't give up food cold turkey like an alcoholic could stay away from alcohol. She had to have food to survive.

It was depressing that she couldn't be like other people, that it was all or nothing with her. She wasn't like those lucky, naturally thin girls who could stop at one or two pieces of pizza. With TJ, one bite of pizza would lead to eating four or five or even six pieces (oh, hell, who was she kidding? She could eat the whole damn thing), so it was better not to take a bite at all, if she could avoid it.

She turned away from the mirror, unable to look at herself anymore, done with assessing the damage she'd done tonight. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, put on an oversized t-shirt and cotton pajama pants, and got into bed, although she was a little wired. The hunger usually drained her, and she was always wiped out by the end of the day, but the overload of carbs she'd eaten tonight and the fact that she'd just spent several hours with Sam had her almost sizzling with energy, despite the guilt and discouragement of her failure to control herself.

She consoled herself with the knowledge that she would make up for her binge tomorrow and the next few days by eating less and finding time to exercise more. She vowed not to lose her grip on her willpower, although there was always the fear in the back of her mind that the latest slip-up would be the beginning of an eating rampage, like an alcoholic that falls off the wagon and goes on a bender.

She wouldn't let that happen, though. She would be back in control again tomorrow. She would be good.

**XXXXXXXX**

It was later than usual when TJ dropped Sam off, and Bobby had already crashed out on the sofabed. However, Dean had just gotten home from Shorty's, so he was able to help Sam get undressed and ready for bed so that Sam wouldn't have to rouse Bobby to help him.

Dean had just gone to crash himself, and Sam felt a pang of guilt that his brother had looked absolutely exhausted. Maybe Bobby and TJ were right. Maybe it was time Sam tried to find something to do with his life; that is, if he didn't take the deal Yellow Eyes had offered him. Even with all the evil things he'd seen and hunted, it still seemed surreal that he had such a proposal before him, especially after the last few weeks with TJ, where he'd felt more like himself and things had seemed sort of normal.

He was lying in bed on his back, right arm in the sling which he would hopefully be rid of soon, and he forced his thoughts away from the deal and the unthinkable to his evening out with TJ. He usually hated it when people manipulated him into doing things they thought were supposedly for his own good. The fact that she'd taken him to a restaurant that she knew wasn't accessible still irked him, but, after the hassle of actually getting him in the restaurant and to the table, he had to admit he had eventually enjoyed it. Of course, who knew what the bathroom was like in the place or if he could have even gotten to it, but thank God he hadn't run into that problem, and thank God he hadn't had to call it to TJ's attention.

He could feel himself getting sleepy and closed his eyes. TJ's face danced across his memory, the light in her eyes, the vitality she exuded that seemed to spill out of her and into him. He couldn't stay ticked at her, and she knew it. She had taken advantage of that tonight, and he should be angry, but, strangely, he wasn't. She was one of those rare people that, the moment you met her, you felt like you'd known her all your life, and she could get away with things that a normal acquaintance couldn't. She was like an old friend that had no qualms about telling you if your fly was unzipped and made good-natured fun of you in the process.

She was a lot like Dean in some ways, and Sam had begun to miss that easy banter between Dean and himself. He'd felt his resentment toward Dean begin to soften, could feel himself start to thaw where his brother was concerned. Deep down, he knew he hadn't been fair to Dean, and he remembered Dr. Salazar telling Dean that sometimes the people who were loved the most bore the brunt of the wrath. He hadn't wanted to analyze his anger toward Dean too closely before, had needed a target, an outlet for the bone-jarring rage, humiliation, and injustice he'd felt, but maybe it was time to take a closer look. Maybe he was ready.

"Hey, Sammy."

Sam's eyes flew open, and his pulse instantly began to pound.

Azazel was leaning over him, eyes glowing yellow, a pleasant smile on his face. "I believe you and I have unfinished business."

Sam closed his eyes, not ready for this, not ready to say yes; not ready to say no. But he knew what the answer would be, what it _had_ to be. He wanted to shout to Dean and Bobby for help, but he was afraid of what Azazel would do to them, remembering what he'd done to Dean in the cabin with their dad. He'd almost shredded Dean from the inside out.

"Are you ready now, Sam? Are you ready to fulfill your destiny?"

Sam's breathing was too rapid, and he closed his eyes, trying to will himself to calm down. He swallowed and forced himself to look Azazel in the eye. "You can take your offer and shove it up your ass."

Azazel seemed to ponder that a moment, the expression on his face unreadable as he met Sam's gaze. "Hm, Sammy, maybe it's time you and I took a little walk down memory lane."

Azazel reached his hand toward Sam.

Sam winced and braced himself, expecting pain. Instead, he saw Azazel pull the covers off of him and touch his leg. After a few seconds, he not only saw Yellow Eyes touching him, he felt the warmth of the demon's hand on his leg—_felt it—_and then his body was suffused with an intense, yet not unpleasant, tingling sensation.

He was stunned to realize that he could feel his _entire_ body, not just the upper half. He could feel the cotton of his sweatpants on his legs, could feel the drawstring waist cinched on his hips, could feel the elastic waist of his boxers underneath. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the meaning of such a simple thing, by the sheer relief of it, and couldn't stop the few warm tears that flowed down his cheeks.

"Here," said Yellow Eyes, throwing Sam a pair of jeans and a hunter-green pullover shirt. "Put these on. Time's a'wastin'," he said with a Jack Nicholson-like grin.

Slowly, Sam engaged his abdominal muscles, _all_ of them, and sat up without having to use his arms. He shrugged his shoulders and was surprised to find that the usual pain and soreness in his right shoulder was gone. He took off the sling and raised his right arm without any effort, rotating his shoulder several times, not feeling even a twinge of pain.

He felt almost hypnotized as he swung his now muscular legs—his legs the way they had been before his injury—over the side of the bed, stood, and took off his sweatpants. He took the jeans Azazel had thrown him and put his feet in the legs of the jeans, pulling them up without effort. It was such an easy thing, something that most people took for granted, but Sam relished it.

He put on the pullover over his thin, gray t-shirt, and Azazel threw Sam's favorite pair of Pumas onto the floor near Sam's feet that the demon must have found in the back of Sam's closet. Sam didn't know why he still had them. He hadn't worn them since rehab because, for some reason, they had caused a skin rub on his left heel that had almost become a nasty pressure sore, and they didn't seem to stay on very well, even when tied. It was just another thing he'd lost with his injury.

It seemed ridiculous that he had to be selective of what kind of shoes he wore since his feet never really touched the ground and he couldn't feel them, but it was an issue a lot of people with SCI had to deal with. He'd eventually gotten a pair of hated brown Merrell loafers because he'd read on an SCI web site that a lot of people liked them because they didn't cause skin breakdown and they stayed on well, even with spastic feet. In that sense, they were adequate, but they weren't what he would have normally picked out, and it was just another thing that had chipped away at who Sam Winchester had been, another part of himself lost.

Azazel snapped his fingers near Sam's face. "Wake up, there, Dazed and Confused. We don't have all night."

Sam slipped the shoes on without socks and tied the laces, savoring the feel of the slight tightness across the top of his feet and the feel of his toes wiggling inside the leather. Then, he stood to his full height, towering over Azazel, and a lump formed in his throat. Again, unbidden tears escaped his eyes, and he turned his head away and quickly scrubbed away the moisture, hating the show of weakness.

It had been a long time since his line of sight had been above belt buckles and doorknobs. Except for the few times he'd been in a standing chair during his PT sessions with a therapist back in Iowa, his height had gone from six-foot-four before his injury to a little over three-and-a-half-feet tall when he was sitting in his wheelchair. That had been one of the hardest things for him to get used to, having to look up at people all time. Not that he had really ever gotten used to it. It was kind of like sitting in the very front seat of a movie theater all the time.

Azazel raised his brows. "Wanna go take a leak? Now's your chance to do it standing up, like a man."

"Fuck you," said Sam with venom.

Azazel patted Sam on the arm. "Sorry I don't have a lady friend for you so you could enjoy _all_ the benefits of having your body back, but I'm afraid we don't have the time."

Sam exhaled harshly, feeling his blood boil, detesting Azazel for saying that and detesting himself for wishing he could bury himself in the first willing woman he saw until he was spent and utterly satisfied. He ground his teeth together and hissed, "Why are you doing this?"

"There's something I want you to see, Sam," he said matter-of-factly. "Follow me."

Sam watched as Azazel headed toward the closed door of his bedroom, the demon unfazed by the fact that Dean and Bobby were just beyond it.

After a moment's hesitation, Sam took the first steps he'd taken in over a year and walked, following the demon out the door. Sam couldn't help but grin at the elation he felt from walking again with ease, enjoying the comfort and sense of self that reconnecting with his entire body gave him.

He was so euphoric that, at first, he didn't care about or register his surroundings as he and Azazel stepped through the threshold into what should have been the hallway of the apartment but was, instead, a room that seemed both foreign and familiar at the same time. Then he saw his mother standing a few feet from him, and he stopped cold in his tracks.

"Recognize any of this?" asked Yellow Eyes.

"Mom?" said Sam, awed by the sight of her.

She had no reaction. She seemed to be staring right through them.

Sam turned around and saw that, behind him, was a baby crib, and there was a baby lying in it, its eyes wide open and crying at a dark figure leaning over it. Sam realized with horror that the baby was him.

In the next instant, Sam was no longer standing in front of the crib but was standing with Azazel in a far corner of the room. "Best seat in the house," crowed the demon. "Shoulda brought popcorn."

"John?" asked Mary with uncertainty.

Sam could feel his heart rate speed up. "Mom!"

"Relax, Sam," said Yellow Eyes. "This is just a hi-def, instant replay. Enjoy the show."

Sam turned his attention back to his mother, feeling his blood pulsing through his veins, pounding in his ears.

Mary frowned. "Is he hungry?"

"Shh," said the dark figure, face unseen.

Mary turned to leave. "Okay," she said, with uncertainty.

"Wait, Mom. Mom!" yelled Sam, as he watched her disappear through the doorway.

Azazel rolled his eyes. "What did I just tell you, Sam? She can't hear you. This isn't real."

Sam stared at the dark figure hovering over the crib in morbid fascination. "Who is that?" he asked Azazel.

"Shh," the demon admonished. "This is the good part."

The dark figure sliced his own wrist with his long, grotesque fingernail. As dark, crimson blood ran from the wound, he let the blood drip into the baby's mouth.

Sam was repulsed and horrified. "What the hell is it doing to me?"

"Better than mother's milk," Azazel taunted.

"Does this mean I have demon blood in me?"

Azazel chuckled.

"Answer me!" cried Sam, as a nauseating panic swelled within him.

Suddenly, Mary rushed back into the room.

The dark figure turned to her, flashing its yellow eyes.

"You bastard!" shouted Sam to Azazel. "It's you!"

Mary took a step toward the crib. "No! Get away from my baby!"

The demon from the past raised a hand, and Mary was forcefully pinned against the wall, held by invisible bonds.

Sam stood, frozen with terror, as his mother was slowly moved up the wall until she was pinned to the ceiling.

The look on Mary's face was one of shock, confusion, and pain.

A memory of Jessica in the same position flashed before Sam's eyes, and he felt as if all the blood was draining from his body, his heart stopping. "No! No!" Sam wanted to run to her, but Azazel grabbed his arm.

Azazel looked almost contrite. "I don't think you wanna see the rest of this." He snapped his fingers, and they were back in Sam's room. The demon tsked and said, "It's past your bedtime, Sammy." Again, he snapped his fingers.

Before Sam really understood what had happened, he found himself back in his bed lying on his back, his right arm in the sling, the soreness back in his shoulder, the lower half of his body unresponsive and utterly devoid of any sensation once again. He was wearing the sweatpants and gray t-shirt he'd gone to bed in. The clothes and shoes he'd been wearing were gone along with his ability to move, and his heart plummeted to his gut. The realization that he was paralyzed again was devastating, and hot tears of rage streamed from his eyes. "Why did you do this to me?" he rasped.

"I wanted you to see that your noble resistance to me is ridiculous and futile. You're already tainted, Sam. You have demon blood coursing through your veins; your destiny is with me." As an afterthought, he said, "Oh, and wasn't it just fantastic to feel the soles of your feet, to be able to wiggle your toes again, to walk? I just wanted you to have a taste of what you've been missing."

Sam clenched his fists and breathed hard, trying to fight the bile that threatened to come to the surface. "You son of a bitch. You ruined my life. You killed everyone I love."

"Had to be done. I couldn't let you become a tax lawyer with a wife, two kids, and a mortgage on a McMansion. You're special because you grew up as a hunter, Sam. College wasn't for you. I needed you to go back to hunting and hone your fighting skills."

"If I hadn't gone back to hunting, I wouldn't be paralyzed!"

"Just a small setback. Agree to be my soldier, my leader, and that can be fixed."

"Fuck you. I'm gonna tear you to shreds, I swear to God."

Yellow Eyes gave him a patronizing look, taking in Sam's paralyzed legs with scorn. "Yeah. Give it your best shot, tiger."

Sam closed his eyes, sickened by the fact that he was so useless and defenseless.

Azazel pulled the covers back over him and tucked the blanket around him. "Sleep tight, tiger," he said with mock tenderness. "I think the next time I visit, you'll be ready." Then he was gone, leaving the room eerily silent.

Sam could feel the muscles straining in his neck, could feel the searing heat of building frustration and rage in him that was about to explode. He was flooded with overwhelming grief for those he had lost and the life that should have been his, the life that had so brutally been torn away from him. With blind fury, he let out a fierce, throaty howl of pain and soul-wrenching desolation that came from deep within him, not caring who heard.

The next thing he knew, he was being shaken, and he could hear Bobby calling his name.

"Sam! Wake up!" demanded Bobby.

Sam was panting, could feel moisture on his face from sweat and, to his embarrassment, tears. He couldn't open his eyes, couldn't face Bobby.

Then he heard Dean. "Sammy!" He felt himself firmly embraced by his brother, Dean's strong hands supporting his back. "It's okay, Sammy. It's just a nightmare," Dean assured in a gravelly voice.

The strain of their relationship momentarily forgotten, Sam wrapped his good arm around Dean, hugging him tightly, wadding the fabric of Dean's white cotton t-shirt in his fist. Sam felt like he was drowning, and Dean was his lifeline. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and he could feel himself near the point of hyperventilation.

"Listen to me. It's okay, man. It's not real," said Dean. His tone was firm and sure.

Sam fought to get control of himself, fought to push the feelings of self-disgust and horrific despair away. He wished it weren't real, but even if he'd been asleep and Azazel had fucked with him in a dream, he knew it was still all true. God help him. He had demon blood in him. He felt his throat closing, and it was hard to suck in air.

"Look at me, Sammy," coaxed Dean, and he loosened his embrace and grabbed Sam's jaw with his hand.

Sam opened his eyes to see Dean's face. Dean's brows were drawn together in concern, but, as usual, his natural air of self-confidence and strength came through. "Breathe with me, in and out," he commanded.

Sam forced himself to listen to his brother, forced himself to match Dean's breaths. He had to get control of himself, couldn't let Dean and Bobby know what Yellow Eyes had told him. They would think he was a freak, something to be hunted, and maybe that wasn't too far from the truth.

As he started to regain his composure, he remembered with photographic clarity those all-too-brief moments of bliss when he'd been whole and walking, and another wave of crushing grief washed over him, chipping away another piece of him, whiddling away his resolve to say no to Azazel.

**XXXXXXXX**

Dean jerked awake, his adrenaline instantly kicking in at the sound of his brother's roaring howl. It was like Sam was being tortured, like he was being torn apart, the sound of it disturbing and thoroughly heart-breaking.

Dean was wearing nothing but his boxers, and he quickly threw on his t-shirt and the jeans he'd worn to work at Shorty's. He'd thrown them on the floor earlier before collapsing with exhaustion into bed.

He ran to Sam's room at the end of the hall. The door was already open, the light was on, and he squinted from its brightness. He saw Bobby shaking Sam's good shoulder, trying to wake him, Sam still yelling. When Bobby saw Dean, he stepped to the side so Dean could take over.

Sam's eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his breathing rapid and heavy, sweat and tears on his face. "Sammy!" Dean barked, trying to break the grip the nightmare had on his brother. He pulled Sam into a tight hug, careful of his bad shoulder. "It's okay, Sammy. It's just a nightmare."

Sam wrapped his good arm around Dean, bunching the cotton fabric of Dean's shirt. Dean could feel Sam trembling, could feel the hitch in Sam's chest as he gulped in air, the sound like a sob. He consoled Sam, tried to get him to slow his breathing, and Sam finally seemed to begin to calm down.

"You good now, Sammy?" Dean asked with gruff concern when the immediate crisis seemed to be over.

Sam nodded, and Dean carefully lowered him back to where his head was resting on the pillow.

"You wanna talk about it?"

Sam closed his eyes, forehead creasing. "No."

Dean looked at Bobby.

Bobby met his look, worry etched on his face. "Sam—"

"Like Dean said, it was just a nightmare," interrupted Sam, his voice quiet. He opened his eyes and they seemed almost dead, like he was broken inside.

It sent a chill down Dean's spine.

"Go back to bed," said Sam. "I'm just gonna watch TV until I can relax. I'll be fine." He turned his head toward Dean. "Could you hand me the remote?"

Dean studied Sam for a moment, disturbed by how quickly Sam had gone from full-on freak-out to unnerving calm, but he grabbed the remote from the nightstand and handed it to him.

Sam pointed the remote at the small TV they'd gotten at a thrift store. He was staring at the TV screen, his face now a mask of stoic strength, hiding any emotion.

Bobby and Dean shared a look.

Sam must have sensed their wary skepticism because he sighed and, in a flat voice, said, "It was just a dream. I was up walking again, and it...felt good. Then I was paralyzed again." He was flipping through channels, never looking at Dean or Bobby.

Dean just sat there on the side of Sam's bed, wanting to do something or say something to make it better but knowing he couldn't. It was such a basic, abbreviated account of the nightmare, but Dean ached for his brother, knew without hearing the details how dispiriting the dream would have been. He also knew there was more to it, but it was clear that Sam was done talking about it. Dean was surprised Sam had offered that much.

"Turn out the light on your way out," said Sam, eyes still glued to the TV.

Dean shot another look at Bobby.

Bobby nodded.

Dean reluctantly stood and squeezed Sam's good shoulder. "Night, Sammy."

Sam's jaw tensed, and his brow furrowed for an instant as if he were maybe in pain, but he never looked at Dean or Bobby, stubbornly staring at the TV.

Dean walked to the doorway and turned off the light. Blue flashes from the TV danced across Sam's stony features as Dean shut the door.

Out in the hallway, Bobby inclined his head toward the living room and kitchen, and Dean nodded and followed. When they reached the kitchen, Bobby leaned against the counter and said, "You buyin' that?"

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "I think he gave us the CliffsNotes version."

"What do you think's going on?"

"He's holding something back, has been since he hurt his shoulder."

Bobby thought for a moment. "He seemed better, not quite as depressed lately. Maybe we're reading too much into it."

"I know my brother, Bobby. I've seen him have nightmares before, but he's _never_ reacted as violently as he did tonight, not even after Jessica. I think something's fucking with his head."

"Yellow Eyes?"

"It fits. That night in the cabin—" Dean stopped and exhaled, steeling himself. "The night Yellow Eyes possessed my dad, he told us that he killed Mom and Jessica because they got in the way of his plans for Sammy and all the other children like him."

Bobby narrowed his eyes. "What the hell did he mean by that?"

"I don't know. But you know about the visions Sam had, right?"

"Yeah. You think they were connected to Yellow Eyes?"

"He said 'other children like him.' Other children with visions or some other kind of powers, maybe?"

Bobby sighed. "I thought Sam's visions stopped after he got hurt."

"They did. Or, at least, I thought they did, but something's going on with him. Something's eating at him. I mean, I thought that..." He trailed off.

Bobby gave him a shrewd look mixed with understanding. "You thought that the demon lost interest in Sam because of his injury?"

Dean almost felt guilty for admitting it, like he was saying Sam was damaged goods—which wasn't fucking true. Reluctantly, he said, "Yeah. I mean, whatever his plans were for Sam, the fact that Sam got hurt and was paralyzed would have thwarted them, right? But what if the demon uses the injury to somehow get to Sam instead?"

Convinced, Bobby said, "All right. I'll make some calls, see if there's been any signs of demonic activity around here."

Dean nodded.

"Should we salt the apartment, take precautions?"

Dean shook his head. "It's immune to all the normal protections. Its only weakness is the Colt."

Bobby raised his brows.

Dean hardened his jaw, a feeling of intense hatred snaking its way through him. "There's one bullet left in the Colt, and it's got that son of a bitch's name on it."

_**TBC**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: Are you guys ready for more TJ? I hope so, because this chap is all about her.**_

**Chapter 8**

TJ had just walked back into her apartment, out of breath, when she heard the text alert on her phone, which was on the counter. She bent over for a second and put her hands on her bare knees, trying to catch her breath. Her shorts and Nike tank top were soaked with sweat, even though they were made from the kind of material that was supposed to wick away moisture.

She'd had a good workout this morning—an hour of running hills on the treadmill and an hour on the elliptical machine at the highest level. It was a Sunday morning, and the exercise room in her apartment complex hadn't been very crowded, so she hadn't been forced to limit her time on the machines. Of course, once she'd finished in there, she'd done another mile or so of jogging around the complex and run up the stairs to her apartment to top off the workout. She had the energy because of all the carbs she'd eaten on Friday, and she was still sort of punishing herself, still trying to burn them off.

She'd only eaten two hundred and ten calories yesterday—a four-ounce skinless chicken breast, low carb tortilla, and a tablespoon of salsa—and, so far today, she'd had nothing. She felt a little lightheaded, but bending over seemed to help, and she wasn't feeling as faint, although she was shaky. Slowly, she straightened, and once she was sure she was steady, she grabbed her phone, made her way to the sofa, and collapsed on it, feeling the wrinkles of the cheap, yellow slipcover with navy flowers printed on it that she kept futilely trying to tuck into the cracks between the cushions. It always looked good until someone actually sat on it.

She looked at her phone and saw that the text was from Sam. Her heart did its usual little flip.

"_Come over."_

"_Have 2 study," _she typed in. Of course, she would rather hang out with Sam, but she had a major calculus test tomorrow and couldn't blow it off. She couldn't procrastinate on the studying because she was scheduled to work at Shorty's later in the day. She'd done a little before her workout, but she still had a lot of formulas to go over.

"_Study here_," came the almost instant reply.

"_Bossy much?"_

A couple of seconds went by, and then the phone bleeped. "_Please?"_

She had expected some smart-ass response, and his simple plea had her Sam senses on alert. She suddenly felt the need to make sure he was okay, could imagine he was giving her the soulful look. _"No fair p-d eyes. C u after lunch_," she typed.

"_Eat here."_

She looked at her Polar watch that told how many calories she'd burned. She'd burned seven hundred and twenty-two, and the time was a quarter past eleven. _"Eating now," _she lied. _"Have 2 shower. B there in 45 mins." _

"_K."_

Gingerly, she got up from the sofa and found a half of a Power Bar in one of the cabinets in the kitchen. She didn't have a pantry, so all of her food was in the cabinets. She grimaced, not really liking the overly sweet, gritty bars, but they were packed with a lot of protein and nutrients that were good post workout. _Breakfast of champions, _she thought, and forced herself to take a bite. She didn't really want the bar, but she didn't want to do a face-plant in the shower, either, and she was still feeling a little woozy.

A little over forty-five minutes later, she was knocking on the door of Sam and Dean's apartment, backpack and purse slung over her shoulder, as usual. She was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, hair thrown into a ponytail, usual Gap flip-flops on her feet. She'd left her Shorty's shirt and her work tennis shoes in the car. She wasn't sure how long she would be at Sam's, but she would probably go straight from there to work.

Bobby opened the door and looked a little surprised. "TJ?"

She smiled. "Hey, Bobby. I take it Sam didn't tell you I was coming over."

He cleared his throat. "Well, we just finished lunch, and he didn't mention it, but that don't mean nothin'. He ain't been too talkative." He motioned for her to come in and then, in a low voice, said, "I'm glad you're here. He ain't been sleeping well the past couple of nights, either."

TJ frowned, apprehensive. "What's wrong?"

Bobby made a motion with his hand for her to keep her volume down and glanced toward the couch, where Dean was sleeping. Even when Dean was sound asleep, he looked tired. He was obviously off from Firestone today, but she knew he was working the closing shift with her tonight. She didn't know how he did it. He never had a whole day off.

"We think it's nightmares, but he won't really tell us nothin'. You know how he can be," said Bobby, his voice a low grumble.

She nodded. "Where is he?"

"In his room."

TJ felt awkward. If Bobby hadn't been there, she wouldn't have felt as weird, but she'd always been taught that it wasn't ladylike for a girl to hang out with a guy in his bedroom, and she didn't want Bobby to think she had loose morals. She'd never been in Sam's bedroom before. "Should I—is it okay—I mean—"

Bobby's expression was slightly amused. "It's okay, TJ. Go on back. I know how it is between you two."

"Yeah," she said, ducking her head and blushing, feeling like an idiot. Of course Bobby wouldn't think anything of it. There's no way Sam would ever see her as anything but a friend. It was laughable to think that anything like _sex_ might happen—or even a freaking kiss, for that matter.

Bobby looked sympathetic, and she got the feeling for a second that he could read her mind, that he knew how she felt about Sam. She blushed even deeper and mumbled, "Well, I guess I'll go back there." She didn't look back at Bobby as she headed for the door at the end of the short hallway and knocked softly.

"Come in," said Sam, his voice clear and strong, hardly muted by the door between them.

Her pulse skipped at the sound, the tenor of his voice warming her inside. She opened the door a little and poked her head in. "You decent?" she joked.

"Hey," he said, giving her a tired smile, and she had to steel herself not to turn to mush at the sight of his dimples and slightly mussed dark hair. He was lying on his back in the middle of the bed, a book in his left hand.

She opened the door wider and stepped into the room.

His bed was made, and he was lying on top of the plain, navy-blue comforter. His head was lying on a couple of thick pillows, and there was another pillow under his knees supporting his legs. His right arm was in the dark-blue sling, as always, and he wore a long-sleeved gray shirt, jeans with a few holes and rips, and socks.

She noticed that the mattress was extra long, and, for the first time, she had an idea of how tall he really was since he was stretched out. She realized that he was taller than she was—probably much taller, judging by how long his legs were—and her attraction to him reached a new level she hadn't thought possible.

She looked around for a chair. The room was sparse, just like the rest of the apartment, and the only chair she saw was his power wheelchair sitting next to the bed. "May I?" she said, asking permission to sit in it.

"Sure."

She pulled out the required study materials from her backpack and made a big production of sitting in the chair, surprised by how super cushiony it was. She let her flip-flops fall off and propped her feet on the side of the bed, using it as an ottoman, crossing her legs at the ankles. She was glad she'd just given herself a pedicure on Friday before her "date" with Sam.

"Comfy?" he asked with an amused curve to his mouth.

"Yeah. What are you reading?"

"The Grapes of Wrath."

She laughed. "No way."

"I was kind of in the mood for it. I read it a long time ago, but your, uh, run-in with Chanel reminded me of it."

She grimaced. "I had to read it in high school. I thought it was pretty boring."

"You should read it again. Now that you're older, you might appreciate it more."

"Do you really believe that?"

"Uh, no."

"I'll stick to my molecules."

"Right. Is that what you're studying?"

"No. Calculus."

"You're a masochist."

"You're just jealous."

He shook his head and went back to his novel.

She held in a smile and cracked open her book. They sat in comfortable silence for a couple of hours, the only disturbance an occasional shift of position on TJ's part. She was completely absorbed in her studying and Sam his book. Feeling a crick in her neck, she finally looked up and swayed her head from side to side, trying to work out the kinks and rubbing her neck with her hand.

"Hey," said Sam.

"Hay is for horses."

He rolled his eyes. "I need to turn onto my side. Will you help me?"

She arched her brows. "Somebody call CNN. Sam Winchester just asked for help."

He gave her a look. "Shut up and come help me."

She got up from the chair, more than happy to do whatever he needed.

He gripped the edge of the mattress with his left hand and pulled, rolling himself onto his left side. TJ helped him get comfortable and adjusted his legs, bending them at the knees to give him more stability and placing a pillow between them, making sure there were no major wrinkles in his jeans that might cause a rub, as he instructed.

"Why do you have to worry about rubs?" she queried.

He was hesitant, and she thought she maybe shouldn't have asked. Finally, though, he said, "The paralyzed part of my body doesn't sweat, and the circulation is slower, so my skin dries out more easily. That, combined with sitting or lying in one position for a long time, makes my skin more prone to rubs, which can turn into what's called a pressure sore. They can be really serious and really hard to get rid of."

"Oh." It was lame, but she didn't know what to say. She wanted him to feel like he could tell her anything and didn't want to say something that would offend him or make him clam up, since he was always so reticent when it came to talking about his paraplegia. She was a little surprised when he kept talking.

"The mechanism that controls body temperature doesn't function below the point of my injury, either, so my lower body doesn't shiver or, as I said, sweat. A lot of times, my upper body tries to overcompensate, so extreme temperatures make it harder for me to warm up or cool down."

"Good thing you live in San Diego, then."

He gave her a small smile. "Yeah. It is."

"Although, have you noticed the weird temperature changes, lately? It's been a lot more extreme than usual."

He frowned but didn't comment, seeming to zone out for a second, but then he looked her in the eye. His left arm was bent at the elbow to where his forearm was lying across the queen-size mattress, palm up and long fingers relaxed and slightly curled. He suddenly turned his hand over and patted the mattress, indicating she should sit there.

She was wary. He was taking up a lot of room, and she would be sitting close to him—really close. "I don't think my Amazon butt's going to fit there."

His brows furrowed. "Why do you say things like that, TJ?" he asked softly. It was a gentle admonishment.

She felt a twinge of old anger and self-loathing and shrugged to cover it up. "Let's face it. I'm no petite femme. I'm more the corn-fed variety."

"That's not true."

This was a subject she did _not_ want to get into with Sam. "Whatever," she said, brushing it off. "Maybe if we scoot you over?"

"I don't want to scoot over. I want you next to me."

"I'm not done studying."

"TJ, you've been studying for two hours. Can't you take a break?" He gave her the eyes and seemed kind of sad.

She got the feeling that he really wanted to be close to her, that he _needed_ it for some reason. Still, she was uncertain. "Sam, what if I, like, accidentally bump your shoulder or something? What if I hurt you?"

"I'm not that fragile. You just helped me turn over and you didn't hurt me," he argued. "Besides, I can't even feel half my body, so that knocks out a lot of area you have to worry about."

She didn't miss the almost imperceptible flash of bitterness that crossed his features when he said that, and it made her heart hurt.

"My shoulder is a lot better. I'll probably get the sling off tomorrow."

"Your ribs?"

"They're fine. They haven't been sore for a while."

She huffed a reluctant puff of air. "Okay. But don't come cryin' to me if I squish you or something."

He didn't say anything, but his brow creased again and his mouth tightened slightly.

She was having a hard time reading him today, figuring out his mood. He had seemed in good enough spirits when she had first gotten there, but now he was kind of broody, and she wondered what had brought it on.

He patted the mattress again. "Grab that extra pillow that's behind me and lie down with me."

_Lie_ down? She eyed him with suspicion, wondering what had gotten into him. Sighing, she did what he asked, though, grabbing the pillow and gingerly lying down on the very edge of the bed facing him, trying to be careful not to jostle him and not topple off the bed at the same time. She felt suddenly shy and self-conscious, and her muscles were uncomfortably tense.

His expression was unreadable, but he held her gaze. "TJ, relax and come closer to me. You're gonna fall off the bed." He moved his left arm to where it was tucked under the pillow supporting his head to make more room for her.

"All right. Just make sure you don't get fresh."

He smirked, his dimples making another appearance. "'Fresh'? What is this, the '50s?"

She gave him a look of mock sternness. "Just keep your hands to yourself, Bubba. I know it'll be difficult being this close to perfection," she joked, "but try to control yourself."

"You're doing it again. There's nothing wrong with you, TJ. You're a very attractive girl."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please."

"I mean it."

"Thanks for being a sweet friend, Sam, but you don't have to give me any charity compliments. I don't have any delusions of grandeur." She scooted in closer and felt a spark of electricity when her knee touched the knee of his bottom leg. Her top leg was even with the pillow between his legs. She knew he couldn't feel her, so she let more of her leg touch his leg, let her toes touch his sock-clad foot, relishing the contact with him, even if it was covert.

She mirrored his position, bending her right arm and tucking her right hand under her pillow. Her left arm was bent upward and resting close to her body. She was only a few inches away from him now, and he was staring into her eyes as if there was something about her he wanted to figure out. It was a little unnerving, and she looked down slightly to break the eye contact, willing herself not to blush.

"It wasn't a charity compliment, TJ. I wouldn't do that."

"Yeah, you would, because you're a nice guy."

He moved his left hand out from under his pillow and slid it under her left hand, wrapping his long fingers around hers, kind of like an arm wrestler's hold, only he was gentle and tender.

The warmth from his large hand spread through her, a liquid energy that ignited a fire in her belly. God, how pathetic was she that just holding a guy's hand made her react this way? Of course, it wasn't just any guy.

"I'm not just being nice," he argued. "Any guy would be lucky to go out with you."

"Next, you're gonna say it's the beauty on the inside that counts, not the outside," she said with derision.

He smiled. "I'm shallower than that."

"Good. Because I'd have to slap you upside the head if you actually said that," she said in her best Oprah-when-she's-being-Southern accent.

"So now you're a sassy Southern black woman?"

"Certain situations call for it."

"Uh-huh," he said, rewarding her with more dimples. After a moment, though, his face fell into a grimace, eyes tightly shut, and he squeezed her hand hard, a faint grunt of pain escaping him.

"Sam, what's wrong?" she said, her heartbeat quickening.

There was a beat of silence, and then he ground out, "My legs."

She froze, wondering if the fact that she was touching his leg was somehow causing him pain. She'd assumed he wouldn't be able to feel her, but maybe she'd been wrong. What did she really know about his condition? She pulled her legs back and felt an instant coolness, like she'd been snuggled up with a warm blanket that had suddenly been taken away.

He opened his eyes and let some of the tension go from his hand, although his grip was still firm. "Sorry. It's—I sometimes have pain in my legs, kind of like phantom pains, I guess. I took a painkiller, but sometimes it doesn't help that much."

Her stomach clenched at the thought of him in pain. "I'm sorry. That sucks. Why does it happen?"

He sighed. "Nerves going haywire, getting confused because the neural pathway connecting my body is severed. At least, that's what I've been told."

She wanted desperately to somehow give him comfort, to make it go away. She wanted to press his hand to her lips or touch his face with her fingertips or brush her fingers through his hair, but, instead, she resorted to teasing him in their usual way. "So that's why you're so touchy-feely today. You're trippin' on the good stuff."

He smiled faintly and then gave her an earnest look. "I'm on drugs all the time, TJ, for different things, so that has nothing to do with it."

"Oh." She felt like a tool for teasing him about it.

"I just needed you today," he continued, his voice soft and sort of husky. "You make me feel...better. You make me forget."

"Wow." She swallowed, her throat tight from emotion. It was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to her.

He squeezed her hand as if to say, _I mean it,_ but then, after a pause, the corners of his mouth curved upward and there was mischief in his eyes. "You're so beautiful on the inside, TJ."

"I hate you," she said, rolling her eyes.

He laughed, and they lay in an easy silence for a moment or two. Then, out of left field, he said quietly, "Why don't you ever ask about it?"

"Ask about what?"

"What happened to me. I've had strangers on the bus ask me, but you've never once said anything about it."

"Do you like it when people ask you about it?"

His eyes darkened a bit. "No."

"Well, that's one of the reasons I haven't asked. I just—I figured you'd tell me if you ever wanted me to know."

"How do you know me so well?"

"It's a girl thing. I just know."

"Women's intuition?"

"Right. Plus, I'm just smarter than you."

He gave her a small, lopsided smirk, and then he grew serious. "Do you want to know?"

She sighed and thought about it for a moment, looking at their hands wrapped together. She gently pulled her hand out of his grasp and idly ran her fingertip in small circles over his palm before looking him squarely in the eye. "No. I don't want to know."

He raised his brows, looking surprised. "Why not?"

"If you tell me what happened, I—" She stopped, needing to take a second to compose herself. "I don't want to have a picture in my head of you being traumatized and in pain or in the hospital. Actually, I can't stand the thought of it," she said in a subdued tone. "To me, you're just you, and knowing how you got hurt isn't going to change anything."

He furrowed his brow and swallowed, his eyes filled with a strong emotion TJ didn't recognize, and then he, too, stared at their hands. He opened his palm to give her more area to work with, as if he was enjoying the feel of her fingertip caressing it.

"I do wonder, though, what it's like for you," she admitted. "I wonder what it feels like. I thought—" she stopped, unsure if she should go on.

He looked at her with understanding. "It's okay. You thought what?"

"I thought you couldn't feel anything, you know, in your legs, but maybe that's wrong? I mean, you know, since you have the pain like you have today."

He exhaled. "I don't have any sensation from my navel down. Those pains that I feel aren't real, basically. I mean, it hurts like a bitch sometimes, but it's manufactured by screwed up neurons in my spinal cord and my brain. It's not caused from any actual ache in my legs."

She digested that for a moment, hardly able to fathom it.

"If you touch me anywhere below my waist, it's like you're touching someone else, like that part of my body isn't mine. I won't feel it at all."

"At all?"

"At all," he said. "It's like the lower half of my body is a pitch-black, silent, empty room, and I can't open the door to it, no matter how much I pound on it or try to break it down. It is completely and utterly closed off to me, and it makes me furious." His features hardened, his tone filled with scorn. "That part of my body is pointless and useless."

"Don't say that, Sam," she admonished, hurting for him.

"You don't understand, TJ. There's so many—" He cut himself off, his features twisted with anguish.

She reached over and touched his cheek, rubbing his cheekbone with her thumb. "So many what?"

He stared into her eyes.

"You can tell me, Sam."

He swallowed and looked down. "There's so many things other than what I've already told you about." He looked back up at her as if trying to read her, trying to gauge what her reaction would be if he told her.

She didn't say anything, just met his gaze steadily.

"My injury is complete. Do you know what that means?"

She shook her head.

"My spinal cord was completely severed—literally cut in half. I'll never walk again. There's no hope of a miracle cure for me."

She put her hand over his again and squeezed, offering comfort and not wanting to think about what could have caused such a horrible injury, not wanting to think of the devastation he must have felt.

"I can't—I don't have _any_ function below the level of my injury." He swallowed again. "I can't control..." He was becoming upset, his face flushing.

"Hey," she soothed, "it's okay."

He wouldn't look at her.

"You're telling me you have plumbing issues?"

He huffed a short, ironic laugh. "Yeah. I have plumbing issues."

She waited, knowing how difficult this was for him and giving him the chance to decide how much he wanted to tell her, not pushing him. She started rubbing circles on his palm again.

It seemed to have a calming effect on him. He stared at the motion her finger made for a moment and then seemed to find the strength to speak. "I have to use a catheter at certain intervals during the day to help me, you know..." He paused, obviously embarrassed.

She nodded, careful not to show a reaction that might make it harder for him to talk about it.

He swallowed and then went on. "I can't feel when I need to, uh, go, so I try to stay on a strict schedule for eating and drinking so that I can predict when to go and I won't have an accident." He looked at her with a self-deprecating, rueful grimace. "It doesn't always work."

"You've never—I mean, it's never happened when you were with me."

"Most of the time it's a good method. My body is pretty much regulated. I have...accidents more at night, really, than during the day. I'm sure if you hang out with me enough, though, it'll happen." The look on his face was almost apologetic, and he didn't quite meet her eyes.

She hated it that he was embarrassed, and her heart ached for him, but she didn't want him to know that. He would construe it as pity. She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

"TJ?" he asked, sounding perplexed.

She figured she should just meet the issue head on. "Give me a second. I'm contemplating what you just told me."

"What?"

She immediately rolled back onto her side, facing him as she had before, and said matter-of-factly, "Okay. I'm over it." Then she firmly clasped his large hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and felt a charge when the warmth of his skin mingled with hers. "So, what about when you have to visit the library?"

"What?" He sounded incredulous and eyed her as if she couldn't mean what he thought she did.

She was amused by his shock. "You know, how do you take a poop?"

He rolled his eyes and gave her a look of disbelief. "You didn't just ask me that."

"Inappropriate?" she asked with devilish innocence.

"Yeah, TJ. A little inappropriate," he said wryly.

"Sorry. Just curious."

"I think I'll spare you the details."

She half-shrugged. "It's only science, Sam. Everyone has to go somehow. You just have to do it a little differently. Even the Queen of England still has to pee and make a deposit at the bank, if you know what I mean. That's what my mamaw always used to say."

"Your _mamaw_?" he repeated in dimpled amusement.

"Yep. Sweet Mamaw. God rest her soul."

He smiled a second longer, but then he was more sober. "The Queen of England is not a paraplegic."

"No, but if she were, she'd have the same issues you do."

"Not really. She's a woman."

"Okay. Prince William, then."

"Does it really not bother you?"

"The only thing that bothers me about it is that it bothers you."

He was quiet for a moment, and she stared at him expectantly.

"You haven't asked..." He cleared his throat, and it was obvious he was forcing an indifferent expression onto his face, trying to pretend that what he was about to say didn't affect him as much as it did.

"About sex?"

He looked down again and colored a bit.

She knew this must be a painful subject for him and knew she needed to tread lightly.

He tucked his left hand back up under his pillow, as if he were protecting himself.

She missed the contact with his hand and felt something leave her at his retreat. She knew by his actions in that moment what the answer was, and while her heart broke for him, in her mind, she was already resisting the thought that he would never know pleasure like that again. There had to be some other way and, Heaven help her, she wanted to be the one to help him find it.

"I can't feel anything, not even _that_," he said softly. "I mean, I can get, uh..." he cleared his throat.

"A woody?"

He huffed a small, humorless laugh. "Yeah. I can get what's called a reflex erection. It's basically caused solely by touch, and it's not the same as, you know..."

She frowned, not really sure she understood.

He sighed. "If I am touched there, I can get an erection, but it doesn't stem from pleasure or thoughts and feelings like a normal erection. It's like it's happening to someone else."

"I knew penises had minds of their own."

"TJ!" he said with exasperation.

She grinned.

"It's not funny," he said with halfhearted annoyance.

"I know. Sorry."

"I can't feel an orgasm."

"The biggest sex organ in the body is the brain, Sam. There's other ways to feel pleasure and get satisfaction. Women have known that since the beginning of time."

"Who are you, Dr. Phil?"

"No. Angelina Jolie."

He smiled and then was quiet. Finally, he said softly, "I don't think I can ejaculate, either."

"You don't _think_? You're a guy, Sam, and you're not sure? You've never taken it for a test drive?"

He reddened a little.

"You're such a prude."

"What are you, the girl version of Dean?"

She wasn't sure what he was talking about. "What?"

"Never mind."

"The way I see it," she mused, "it's still good news. You can still have sex, Sam. You just gotta find a girl that doesn't mind being on top. Trust me, I don't think you'll have a problem with that."

He huffed. "Even if I did, I can't father children, TJ. How many girls do you know that don't want children someday?"

"First of all, you could always adopt. You don't have to be a biological father to be a good father."

He snorted.

"Well," she said archly, "I'm glad my daddy didn't have that reaction when my parents decided to adopt _me_."

He looked instantly contrite. "God, TJ, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"Whatever. The point is, lots of people have trouble conceiving, Sam, and they find ways around it. That's not going to keep a girl from falling in love with you."

"No one is ever gonna want me like this," he said with vehemence.

"Don't say that, Sam. It's not true. You're such a great guy, and you've got so much to offer a woman in _every _way." She'd never meant anything more in her life.

He smiled with irony and echoed her words from before. "Don't give me any charity compliments."

She felt a surge of anger. "If you think that's what I'm doing, then you're a fucking idiot, Sam Winchester!" She shot up off the bed in a huff and started stuffing her books into her backpack.

Sam looked stunned and confused. "TJ?"

She was mad that he was so blind to her and the way she felt about him, mad that he couldn't see how wonderful he was, and she was mad at herself for falling for him in the first place. He was so far out of her league, she might as well be a Martian. She swallowed, fighting the tightening of her throat and the welling moisture in her eyes. "I gotta go. It's almost time for me to go to work."

His brows drew together into a frown. "You've still got another hour," he protested.

"I like to be early."

His frown deepened, and his tone was skeptical. "Right. Since when?"

So what if she was usually a little late? He didn't have to point it out, did he? She crammed her feet hastily into her flip-flops and then picked up her bag and purse and slung them over her shoulder. "Bye, Sam."

Now he was the one affronted. "I just told you personal things I've never told anyone, and now you're pissed? You're just gonna leave? What am I supposed to think, TJ? Did I say too much?"

"No. Everything's fine," she said, barely keeping the tremor from her voice and feeling bad that he was having second thoughts about opening up to her. "I'll call you later, okay?" She turned to leave, making her way to the door, not waiting for an answer.

"TJ?" he said, his deep, quiet voice halting her more effectively than if he'd shouted.

She froze with her hand on the doorknob, not turning to look at him.

"If I could get up, I'd take your hand, turn you around to face me, and get you to tell me what's wrong. But I can't, can I?" he said with soft reproach.

She inhaled a deep breath and exhaled, trying to keep her cool, and then looked up at the ceiling, hoping that gravity would make the unshed tears go back to wherever tears came from. Finally regaining control, she slowly turned around and went back over to the bed, sat down on the edge, and dropped the heavy burden of her backpack and purse onto the shiny, laminated wood floor. "That was a low blow, playing the gimp card."

He smiled. "I know."

She looked down at her short fingernails, suddenly fascinated by them.

"Are you gonna tell me why you went all Lindsay Lohan on me?"

She sighed with resignation and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "I don't like it when you're so down on yourself."

He raised his brows. "Seriously?"

She went back to studying her fingernails.

"Hi, Kettle. I'm The Pot, and you're black."

She gave him a look. "Ha. Funny."

The corners of his mouth curved upward. "I'll stop if you'll stop."

"Okay. Fine," she said, still feeling sad and wishing there was some way she could make him see the Sam that she saw. She found it disturbing that he had such a disconnect from his body, held such animosity toward it. She wondered if there was a way to fix it, to spare him the lifelong pain she had always lived with. It was too late for her, but maybe it wasn't for him.

He grabbed her forearm and tugged on it, giving her the Sam look. "Lie back down with me, just for a few more minutes?" He sounded tired and looked exhausted, and it was suddenly obvious that he hadn't been sleeping well.

There was no way she could resist him. She kicked off her flip-flops and lay down, facing him again as she had before, letting her leg and foot touch his, loving the feel of his sock-clad foot when she wiggled her toes, not afraid of hurting him anymore. She felt honored that he had trusted her enough to explain things to her, and none of it changed the way she felt about him. If anything, she admired him more for his strength and dignity in dealing with it all.

He shut his eyes and pulled her hand closer to him, very near to his lips.

She could feel his breath on her knuckles, and it made her stomach flutter. She waited quietly for a few minutes and watched as he drifted off to sleep, the lines on his face and forehead smoothing out.

She would leave for work once he was good and asleep, but, for now, she was enjoying the scenery, memorizing every feature of his face. He was a work of art on the outside and the inside, just as much now as he must have been before he'd been hurt, and she was going to figure out a way to make him see that.

**XXXXXXXX**

Shorty's was closed, and TJ was helping Dean wipe down the bar and put up clean glasses. Dean had let Heather leave as soon as they locked the doors, since she wasn't feeling well. They hadn't been that busy tonight, so the cleanup wasn't anything that TJ and Dean couldn't handle.

"Hey, TJ," said Dean, drying a glass with a bar towel, "what's your schedule like tomorrow?"

She scrubbed at a sticky spot on the bar with a damp rag. "Got a test at eight and classes at ten and two. Why?"

"Oh. Never mind. I was gonna see if you could squeeze in taking Sam to his doctor's appointment and PT session at the hospital."

"What time?"

"Ten."

"Why can't Bobby take him?"

"Bobby has something he has to take care of," he said vaguely. "Don't worry about it. I can take off from Firestone."

She wasn't about to pass up a chance to spend time with Sam. "I'll take him. My ten o'clock class is Latin." She smiled. "I'll probably learn more from Sam by taking him to the doctor than being in class with Professor Prick."

Dean smirked, but no humor reached his eyes. "You and Sam are getting pretty close, huh?"

TJ felt a little guilty, knowing things had been strained between Dean and Sam for a while. "Yeah. I guess."

"He feels comfortable with you," he observed.

She was hesitant. "Are you okay with that, Dean?"

His features were carefully devoid of emotion. "Yeah. I'm glad you're his friend. He needs that." He paused a second and then said, "Did he seem okay to you this afternoon?"

She felt a little strange talking about Sam behind his back, especially since they'd talked about so many intimate things, but she knew Dean was asking out of concern. "Well, he seemed a little down, if that's what you mean, a little pensive. I think his legs were hurtin' him." Her accent was slipping through a little bit, but she didn't care. She was so tired.

Dean's jaw hardened.

She could see that he didn't like to hear Sam was in pain.

He looked worried. "TJ, I need you to tell me if you ever think he's acting weird or not himself, okay?"

She felt the need to put him at ease. "Sure. Of course. Is there—is there something I don't know? Are you worried about him for some particular reason?"

"Just watch yourself with him, TJ."

She was a little wary. "What do you mean?"

Dean stopped what he was doing and looked at her intently. "I just don't want anyone to get hurt."

She was a little perturbed but reminded herself that Dean was always protective of Sam. "I would never do anything to hurt Sam. I hope you know that, Dean."

He gave her a direct look. "Sam's not the one I'm worried about."

She looked at the glass she was holding, feeling herself blush. "What are you talking about?" she said, playing dumb.

"I think you know, TJ."

She put away the glass, grabbed another, and gave Dean a sideways glance. "Is Sam the only one who's not in on the joke?"

He snorted. "Sam's a smart dude, but he can sometimes be amazingly slow when it comes to women. I don't think he has a clue."

She looked at him, dead-serious. "Don't tell him, okay? I know he doesn't feel the same way, and I don't want to ruin our friendship."

Dean looked sympathetic. "TJ—"

"Don't, okay? I don't need you to try to console me, and don't worry. I can take care of myself."

He eyed her critically. "You sure about that?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You look exhausted, TJ—"

She opened her mouth to protest that it was late in the day and of course she was tired, but she never got a chance.

He held up a hand to silence her as if anticipating what she was going to say. "You look exhausted even when I see you at the apartment with Sam," he clarified, "and you've lost a lot of weight since you been workin' here." He looked a little embarrassed, which was unusual for Dean. "Heather and I are just wondering if maybe you might be having, uh, health problems or something."

She rolled her eyes. "I just like loose clothing. They probably make it seem like I've lost weight."

He looked at her as if he wasn't buying it.

"Heather's the one that went home early tonight because she was sick, not me. I'm fine."

He still didn't look convinced.

It made her nervous that he was asking questions, and the thought that Dean might figure out her secret was almost as mortifying as it would be if Sam found out. It scared her that Dean might somehow interfere, even if he meant well. It was her life and her body. She was in control, and it was nobody else's business.

She unloaded the last of the clean glasses from the industrial-size portable dishwasher tray and picked it up to take it back to the kitchen. "Tell Sam I'll pick him up at nine-thirty," she said, trying to change the subject. "That should give us enough time to get there, don't you think?"

He scrutinized her for another second and said absently, "Yeah. That should be good."

She wanted to get his mind on something else besides her weight loss. "Maybe you should go check on Heather," she said with a wink.

"Maybe you should go eat a cheeseburger with a side of pizza."

That made her angry. "Maybe you should mind your own damn business."

He held up his hands in a placating gesture, white bar towel in one hand. "Look, TJ, I just don't want you keeling over with a tray full of pints and chicken wings some night."

"Whatever." She walked away, stomach in knots and feeling a little shaky, like she'd just been caught in a lie. She hadn't lied, though. She was fine, and she refused to feel guilty that all she'd eaten that day was half a Power Bar.

_**TBC**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"All right, Sam," said Karen, Sam's physical therapist. "Dr. Ogden gave the okay for you to do the standing frame, if you want, as long as I help you."

Sam glanced at TJ, who was sitting against the wall in a chair, wearing her usual baggy sweatshirt, jeans, and ponytail, studying while he went through his physical therapy.

He exhaled. He hadn't stood in a standing frame since rehab in Iowa, and he felt a little self-conscious; but then he remembered standing next to Azazel and what that had felt like, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to feel tall again, even if it wasn't on his own steam. "Yeah, I guess," he finally answered Karen.

"All right," she said in her clipped, professional manner. "Did you eat a good breakfast this morning?"

He nodded.

"Good. We don't want you passing out on us."

He was in the power chair, and he pushed the joystick and made his way over to the contraption that was basically a chair that, once he was secured in it, went from a sitting position into a stand and allowed people with paraplegia the chance to stretch out their muscles and reach their full height.

He had gotten the sling off earlier at his doctor's appointment and felt like a free man, although his right arm and shoulder were weak and stiff. He had a long way to go to reach where he'd been before, and he had a lot of restrictions on how much he could lift and how much he could rotate his shoulder. Still, it was progress and a relief.

He still wasn't allowed to transfer without a board, so Karen used the one she always had on hand and helped him transfer onto the seat of the frame. It always amazed him that she was so petite but never had any trouble maneuvering his large body. He hadn't liked her take-no-prisoners demeanor at first, but he'd spent a lot of time with her in the past month and a half, and he was warming up to her. He knew she had his best interests at heart, and she was a big part of the reason his shoulder recovery was ahead of schedule—along with Bobby, of course.

Karen made sure the soles of his feet were resting flat on the footrests and then flipped the knee pads over onto his knees, securing his legs. There was a hydraulic lever attached to the frame that looked kind of like the "ski poles" that came with an elliptical machine, which made the seat move into a stand. Since there was only one lever, and it was on the right side, Karen began pushing the lever back and forth because Sam's shoulder was still too weak for him to do it himself.

He could feel himself start to rise and felt lightheaded and short of breath. He'd had no problems when he'd stood and walked with the "dream" body in the nightmare with Azazel, but it had been a long time since he'd been vertical in this body, and it was basically giving him a massive head rush.

Karen paused her movement. "How're you doing, Sam?"

"Just give me a second."

"Sure."

After a few moments, when he could feel his blood pressure adjusting to the new elevation, he nodded his head, indicating she should resume.

"All right," said Karen, and she began the back-and-forth motion on the lever again.

He felt himself getting closer to his full height and experienced a slight thrill. It was weird how close the ceiling seemed to be getting and even weirder that he noticed such a thing. He turned his attention to TJ and watched her intently, waiting for her to look up from her textbook and notice what was happening.

She wrote something with a pencil in a notebook, and he noticed how prominent the knuckle bones were in her fingers and remembered how extremely large her eyes had looked yesterday when they'd been lying on his bed. She had warm, expressive eyes, but they seemed too big now, the sockets around them too defined. It was hard to tell because she always wore such baggy clothing, but he realized that she had lost weight in the weeks that he had gotten to know her.

When he was almost to a full stand, she finally looked up, and her eyes widened. Then a huge grin spread across her face, and that combined with her smattering of freckles made it seem like she'd been kissed by the sun.

Her delight was so genuine and infectious that Sam couldn't help but grin back, even though he still felt a little lightheaded from being at his full height.

When he was standing up fully straight, Karen adjusted the shadow tray—which was a small, flat surface attached to the front of the frame—so he'd have something to lean his arms on, and said, "I'm going to go print a handout that has your new exercises on it, Sam, and the new do's and don'ts. I'll be right back."

"Yeah. Okay."

TJ set her books in her chair and walked over to him, giving him the once-over. "Wow," she said, looking up at him and clearly impressed. "You're a freakin' tree."

He looked down at her and raised his brows in amusement. "You're short." She was one of the tallest girls he'd ever known, but he was at least four inches taller.

Her face lit up in another grin. "This is pretty cool. You should get one of these for your home."

"Yeah. All I need is about four thousand dollars."

"Ouch. Won't insurance pay for it?"

He snorted. "Uh, no. It's really complicated. They're pretty stingy, and I don't have Medicaid to supplement. There's a chance the state might come through at some point, but right now, it's not gonna happen."

"That doesn't seem right. It seems like this would be really good for you."

"Yeah. There's a lot of health benefits to it. It's all crazy, though. There's a chance my insurance may cover custom leg braces, but, ironically, they cost more than the standing chair. With the braces and crutches, I might be able to walk short distances, but that's a long time away."

She frowned. "Why?"

"My shoulder. It takes a lot of upper body and arm strength."

"Oh. Duh," she said, rolling her eyes at herself as if she should have figured that out.

The action combined with her freckles made her look like a ten-year-old, and Sam smiled.

Karen came back with the handouts containing Sam's new PT regimen and handed them to TJ. TJ towered over the tiny, dark-haired woman, and Sam totally dwarfed her, but she still had a no-nonsense air of authority, even as she craned her neck to look up at both of them. "Listen closely," she ordered TJ, "so you can tell Bobby all of this."

Sam felt a surge of annoyance. As if he couldn't do it himself.

Karen looked at him with narrowed eyes, reading his mind. "I know you, and I don't want you trying anything beyond your current strength level. I don't want you pulling the wool over Bobby's eyes and overdoing it."

He wanted to protest that he wouldn't do that, but he kept quiet, knowing it was pointless to argue with her.

"Okay. I'm going to give you some Therabands, starting with the least resistance, for internal and external rotation, flexion, abduction, and extension. We want to start really strengthening your deltoid and rotator cuff.

"You're going to begin flexibility and stretching exercises to progressively increase your range of motion in all directions. I've attached a card for a yoga studio here in case you're interested. It's a great way to strengthen and increase flexibility in a gentle, relaxing, energizing way. It's also a good way for you to get in touch with your body."

Sam just looked at her, thinking there was no way in hell.

Karen gave a wry smirk. "I know you want to roll your eyes, Sam, but the instructor there has paraplegia herself, and she's adapted a lot of yoga poses for those with disabilities. Her name is Amber, and she's fantastic. She teaches classes for able-bodied students, too. Yoga is for everyone, and it can be very healing. If you're interested, tell me, and I will give her the rundown on your shoulder so she won't give you any poses that could reinjure it."

Sam remained politely impassive, trying not to show his disdain for her suggestion.

TJ, however, was flipping through the papers Karen had handed her and perusing the card with the yoga guru's name on it. She seemed to be taking Karen's instructions very seriously, and Sam was kind of warmed by the fact that she cared.

Karen continued her lecture. "No weightlifting above shoulder height, and no lifting anything at all over ten pounds. Still no transfers without a transfer board. You can, however, start sleeping on your stomach again, if you want."

Sam was relieved to hear that. If he slept on his stomach, he didn't really have to worry about pressure sores, and Dean and Bobby wouldn't have to turn him over during the night. Of course, now he had demons chasing him in his dreams, so it was unlikely that he would get a good night's sleep, even without having to be turned.

"Probably the best news of all," said Karen, "you can start using your manual chair again _if_ you stick to a few limitations."

He wouldn't have thought such a thing would be good news, but he couldn't wait. He had missed his manual chair. It was customized to his needs, and it would feel good to be back in it again after having to use the power chair for so many weeks.

Karen gave him a stern look. "You can use it in your apartment and only on level surfaces. Absolutely no pushing up or down inclines or through rough terrain like grass or gravel. Have someone else push you." She paused, making sure Sam was listening. "Am I clear?"

"Yes, Karen, you're clear."

TJ had her thinking face on, brows slightly furrowed and focusing on every word Karen was saying.

"Good," said Karen. "I'm going to put you in a manual we have here in a minute so I can show you how you're going to propel yourself. It's not going to be what you're used to. It's going to be a very controlled movement. None of that jerky pushing and feeding off inertia. It might be a little too slow for your liking at first, but if you want your shoulder to continue to heal, you'll do it. Remember, you'll be pretty weak in the beginning. If your shoulder starts to hurt or gets fatigued, have someone push you or switch back to the power chair. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Karen, you're clear," he said, almost as if by rote.

"Once you get used to propelling yourself that way, you might even want to stick with it. In my opinion, it's what they should teach in all rehabs, but they don't ask me. You could save yourself a lot of wear and tear down the road on both your shoulders." She pointed a finger at him for emphasis. "Now, Sam, Dr. Ogden is only giving you the okay to use your manual because you've been such a good patient so far, so I really want you to pay attention to what you're doing," she warned.

"I get it," Sam replied, peeved that she was talking to him like he was a recalcitrant teenager.

TJ piped up, ever the model student. "I'll make sure he does what he's supposed to and that Bobby knows everything, too."

Karen smiled. "I like this girl."

_Me too, _thought Sam, and then he teased TJ. "Brownnoser."

TJ scowled up at him. "Tree."

He grinned, but it faded a little when he noticed again how her eyes looked a little sunken in and how gaunt she was getting. It worried him.

When the PT session was over, TJ and Sam were making their way down the hall to the front entrance of the rehab facility when a female voice behind them yelled, "Nelly?"

There was a slight hesitation in TJ's steps, but she kept going as if she hadn't heard.

"TJ, is that you?" said the voice.

There was no escaping this time, and TJ froze in her tracks and then unenthusiastically turned around, pasting a rigid smile on her face.

Sam stopped next to her and spun the power chair around. A pretty, blue-eyed girl with mid-length blond hair cut in the shape of a bob was grinning at them, obviously pleased to see TJ. She moved forward and embraced TJ in a big hug. She wasn't as tall as TJ, but she was taller than average. After a second, she pulled back and took in TJ's appearance, her grin faltering a little. She looked TJ up and down, her voice tinged with concern. "Nelly? How've you been?"

TJ seemed happy to see her friend but wary at the same time. "Hey, Gretchen. I'm fine. How 'bout you?"

Gretchen was still scrutinizing TJ. "I'm great. Things are going well with the new job."

"That's...great," said TJ lamely with false cheer. She nodded toward Sam. "Gretchen, this is my friend Sam Winchester. Sam, this is my old roommate, Gretchen Koenig.

Gretchen gave Sam a warm smile and looked him directly in the eye. "Hey, Sam. It's nice to meet you."

He smiled politely. "Yeah. You, too." He waited for some sign of awkwardness or unease, which he had gotten used to on the rare occasions when he met someone new, but Gretchen had no reaction whatsoever to Sam's wheelchair. He noticed she was wearing a polo and khakis similar to what Karen wore and figured she must be a PT, too.

Her attention quickly refocused on TJ.

TJ said, "So, um, what are you doing here, Gretch?"

"Oh, we sometimes trade between departments. They were shorthanded over here, so I volunteered to help out."

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then TJ said to Sam, "Gretchen is a PT, but she specializes in sports injuries like knees and stuff. Right, Gretch?"

"Yeah."

"More probability of running into hot guys," TJ teased.

Gretchen eyed TJ, and her manner was distracted, but she soon smiled and said, "You know it, girl. We just got the contract to be the trainers for the Gulls, San Diego's minor league hockey team. Lots of cute Russians and French Canadians. It's weird, though. They're really young, but most of them are already married."

"I'm sure that puts a damper on things."

Gretchen frowned and a beat went by before she said, "Yeah...So, what are you guys doing here?"

"I brought Sam to his PT appointment. He's recovering from a shoulder injury."

"Oh," said Gretchen with polite disinterest, still oddly preoccupied with TJ.

TJ looked uncomfortable and cleared her throat. "Okay. Well, it was great seeing you again, but we really have to go. You ready, Sam?"

Sam studied the two girls and knew there was a weird dynamic going on. TJ seemed nervous, and Gretchen's manner was assessing. He was curious but answered TJ's question. "Yeah. I'm ready if you are."

Gretchen drew TJ into another affectionate hug, ignoring TJ's stiff, robotic response. When she let go of TJ, she said with a penetrating look, "You're too thin, girl. Are you sure you're okay?"

TJ blushed and then seemed annoyed. "I'm fine," she declared with a firm jaw, and then nervously pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear that had fallen out of its ponytail.

Gretchen didn't look convinced, but seemed to know she should let it go. Switching her mood, she said, "Hey, we should all go out sometime. Let's do a day trip to the beach like we used to. Do you like the beach, Sam?"

"Uh..." Sam felt a little awkward and didn't know how to respond. He hadn't been to the beach since his days at Stanford, and certainly not since his injury.

TJ, as usual, seemed attuned to his feelings and came to the rescue. "I don't know about Sam, but I don't have time, Gretch. I'm swamped with work and school. Call me after graduation in a couple of months."

"Yeah, yeah," said Gretchen. "Same answer I always get. I'm gonna drag you out eventually. I miss my best friend. The other girls are always asking about you, too. We need to do a girls' night out." To Sam, she said, "How do you guys know each other?"

"She works at Shorty's with my brother Dean. I've been helping her out with Latin."

"Uh-huh," said Gretchen with a knowing smile. "Looks like I'm not the only one running into hot guys."

Sam was taken aback by the indirect compliment. It was nice to hear it, actually.

TJ blushed furiously. "God, Gretchen, just shut up. What is this, Embarrass TJ Day? Sam and I are just friends."

Gretchen laughed, unrepentant. "Hey, you guys have time for lunch? I'm on my break."

"No," said TJ emphatically.

"Well—" said Sam at the same time. He wouldn't have normally considered it, but he liked Gretchen. She didn't make him feel self-conscious, and they could surely find a place near the hospital that would be accessible.

Besides, he damn sure wasn't in a hurry to get home. He was tormented by the nightmare with Azazel, constantly agonizing over the fact that he was tainted with demon blood. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if Azazel had been right. Was it futile to try to fight his destiny? Was he needlessly living with paraplegia when he was just delaying the inevitable? The only time he could get his mind off of it all was when he was with TJ.

TJ grabbed Sam's left wrist and looked pointedly at his watch. "We've got to go. I need to take Sam home and get ready for my two o'clock class."

Sam frowned. "It's just past noon, TJ. You've got plenty of time. We could grab something quick."

Her expression was a mixture of surprise and then something that looked a lot like anger. "Okay. Great. You guys have an awesome time. I'm sure there'll be a bus stop near wherever you decide to go so you can get home, Sam."

It was a low blow, the threat of the bus, because she knew how he hated it, and he wondered why she was so adamant about not wanting to have lunch with her old friend. Besides, he wanted to see TJ eat a decent meal. Gretchen was right. TJ looked too thin, and he was getting more worried about her, even though he was hacked off at her for the bus comment. However, he could see that TJ had switched into her _you're not gonna tell me what to do_ mode. "Fine," he said tersely. "Take me home, then."

"It's okay," said Gretchen, obviously trying to diffuse the tension between Sam and TJ. "Maybe some other time. I'd like to get to know you, Sam. Maybe you can fill me in on what TJ's been up to, since _she_ won't."

"You know what I've been up to," said TJ. "School and work."

Gretchen winked at Sam. "And Latin."

He smiled back.

TJ paled, and there was not a trace of humor in her eyes.

Sam cleared his throat, disconcerted by her odd reaction. "Well, uh, it was nice meeting you, Gretchen."

"You, too, Sam." Then, she moved as if to give TJ yet another hug.

TJ crossed her arms as if to ward her off.

Gretchen's eyes were imploring. "Call me, TJ. We need to talk."

TJ gave her a quick smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Okay. I will."

Gretchen gave a skeptical smile back as she turned and retreated down the hallway.

**XXXXXXXX**

"Okay. Ready?" TJ asked Sam.

He nodded.

Sam was in his power chair, and she was leaning over him, about to help him transfer into her car. He had already placed his feet on the floorboard, and he had his good arm wrapped around her neck in order to prepare to transfer the rest of his body to the front seat. He smelled of one part mystery spice and one part Irish Spring and all hot guy, and TJ felt like he was a giant magnet and she was a giant piece of metal, irrevocably attracted to him. It was hard to believe that she could feel so strongly about him, and he could feel nothing in return. It seemed like some of her feelings should rub off on him by sheer force of will.

He counted to three, and she helped him lift onto and then slide along the transfer board and into her car. Once he was in the car, he hugged her neck for a second longer, getting himself adjusted, and then let go. He was favoring his right arm, not exerting it too much, and TJ was glad he was being careful, even though she was pissed at him.

His seat was pushed as far back as it would go because of his long legs. He lifted them a little with his left hand and adjusted them with movements that were so quick and sure it almost looked like his legs were moving on their own. He reached across his body with his left arm, grabbing the door. "I got it," he said, indicating that he could close the door.

TJ fought the urge to roll her eyes. God forbid he let a girl shut the damn door for him. "Fine," she said abruptly and pulled his chair back out of the way to disassemble it. It was easy, really. All she had to do was take out the main battery pack and then the backup battery, pull out the seat cushion, and everything else pretty much folded up and fit in the trunk.

Once they were on their way to Sam's apartment, TJ fumed over the fact that it had taken her weeks to convince him to go out anywhere with her, yet Gretchen had asked one time, after knowing him all of five minutes, and he was rarin' to go. Of course, she should have expected as much. Gretchen was beautiful. Why wouldn't Sam want to go to lunch with her? The charming smile he had given Gretchen at the end of their encounter had made TJ's heart sink like the Titanic.

After several minutes of tense silence, Sam finally said, "TJ, are you okay?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" she snapped.

He frowned. "Do you _feel_ okay?"

"I feel fine."

He hesitated and then said, "It's just that Gretchen is right, TJ. You look thin, and I've noticed you seem tired a lot."

"Well, if I don't feel like crap now, I will soon if everyone keeps telling me I look like it," she said with irritation. "It doesn't do much for a girl's ego."

"I just don't want you to get sick," he said quietly.

Great. Just what she needed. People were starting to talk, starting to notice her weight loss, just like the last time. Why couldn't they all just leave her alone? She knew what she was doing. She stared at the road ahead of her, but she could feel Sam's eyes on her.

He sighed. "Your friend Gretchen seems nice. Why don't you hang out with her anymore?"

She could feel her ire start to escalate. "I don't have time."

"What are you talking about? You're constantly trying to get me to go out, yet you don't have time for her? We could all do something together, if you want."

Lord have mercy; Dean was right. For a smart guy, Sam could be incredibly dense. She steered with one hand and rummaged through her purse with the other until she found her cell phone. "Here," she said, carelessly tossing it at him and secretly impressed by his quick reflexes when he caught it. "Why don't you give her a call? Her number's in my contacts. I'm sure you guys would have a great time together since you hit it off so well." She couldn't keep the acid from her tone.

"Are you jealous?" he asked, sounding incredulous.

"Of course not," she lied. "If you want to ask her out, go ahead. She's a great girl."

"You know I would never do that."

"Why? She openly admitted she thinks you're hot."

He was silent.

"What? So you're never going to ask a girl out again? Ever?" She glanced at him.

He was staring out the windshield in front of him, jaw tense.

"That's fucking ridiculous, Sam."

His only reaction was his jaw getting tighter.

It made her furious, the thought that he really believed that no girl would want him, but, at the same time, she was furious and hurt that he had liked Gretchen and wanted to go to lunch with her. It was a stupid contradiction, and it was making TJ crazy. She was entering dangerous territory where she'd been known to say things that got her into trouble, but she couldn't keep quiet. "She's a physical therapist, Sam. She knows what to expect, and I know from hearing her talk about the last guy she dated that she likes to rodeo."

He still didn't respond.

She hazarded another glance at him, getting angrier that he wouldn't say anything. "Ask her out, Sam," she goaded. "You guys would make the perfect couple." With biting sarcasm, she added, "Maybe it's your lucky day. Maybe she has a thing for gimps."

Sam's jaw hardened to granite, the muscles in his neck and shoulders cording.

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them and was horrified, knowing she had gone too far. She saw a strip center and pulled in and parked, unable to pay attention to the road, feeling a numb sort of shock before panic set in, hoping she hadn't hurt him as much as she knew she had. She looked at him, praying that he would believe her and forgive her. When she spoke, her voice didn't sound like her own. "I'm _really_ sorry, Sam. That was uncalled for. I didn't mean it."

He looked away from her and stared out the passenger window. His left hand was clenched into a fist, and her phone was gripped in a vise in his right hand.

"Sam, please," she begged, feeling hysteria bubbling up within her and frantically trying to find the right words that would make everything okay between them. "You're—" Her throat suddenly tightened, and she couldn't speak, overwhelmed by fear that her big mouth might have just ruined her friendship with the one person she loved most in the world. Hot tears spilled from her eyes, and there was no way she could stop them. She swallowed convulsively, trying to find her voice. "You're the last person I would _ever_ want to hurt, Sam. I'm so sorry. Please..."

He turned to her then, brows furrowed, eyes filled with disappointment and betrayal.

It was her undoing, and a fresh wave of tears flowed down her cheeks. "I don't know why I said that. I didn't mean it. _I'm sorry_," she said again in a ragged whisper, wishing there were stronger words to convey how she felt.

He stared at her for what seemed like an eternity, but then he reached over and wiped some of the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. "That was a little insensitive," he said in his quiet way.

She let out a choked sound that was half laugh and half sob. "You think so?"

"Yeah."

She nodded, looking out the windshield but seeing nothing, every fiber of her being aware of him. She felt physically ill for hurting him, and she wiped more moisture from her soaked cheeks.

"Hey," he said, and he drew her into a hug across the console of the front seat.

She sagged with relief, leaning into him, relishing the feel of his arms around her, and mentally added to her list of _Things That Make Sam Awesome_ the fact that he was incredibly forgiving—and an incredible hugger.

After he let go of her, he dropped her phone that he still held back into her purse. "So, you really think Gretchen likes to rodeo?"

TJ gave a short laugh and rolled her eyes, tremendously grateful that he was teasing her. "You wish."

He grinned, dimples showing. "Let's get some lunch."

She started the car and looked back to pull out of the parking space. "I'm not hungry."

He grew serious again. "TJ, you need to eat before your class."

"I'll grab something on the way."

"You promise?"

She pulled back onto the street, looking both directions and pretending to be cautious but really trying to figure out how to answer him without lying.

He frowned. "TJ, you didn't answer me. Do you promise me you'll get something to eat?"

She looked into his eyes and said, "I promise." It wasn't a lie. She would get something to eat. She just didn't say what or how much.

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam headed toward his bedroom to get a book to read. He pushed himself in his manual wheelchair the way Karen had shown him, with fluid and controlled movements instead of hard, jerky pushes on the wheels that would get them rolling by inertia and jar his shoulders in the process. The new way was slowgoing, but he knew he would get faster when his shoulder was stronger. He was glad to be back in the manual and was surprised to discover that he felt more like himself when he was in it, felt more free.

Both of his arms were weak, too, from several weeks of not really using them, especially his right, and he had been careful not to overdo it. He'd been back in his regular chair for two days now and had stayed on the even, smooth floors of the apartment, not going on any terrain that would be too taxing. The chair was engineered well, smooth, and easy to push, and he liked that his legs and feet were tucked back in more on the footplate so that he didn't have to worry as much about banging them on walls and furniture.

He didn't even mind the slightly rough, rubbery feel of the tires and the metal of the handrims under his palms and fingers, although his hands were a bit tender from disuse and he would have to develop more calluses again. He had fingerless leather gloves that he kept in his backpack for when he had to push himself long distances or in bad weather, but most of the time he didn't like to wear them. There was no doubt it would be harder to keep his hands clean now that he was back in the manual, but he didn't care. It felt good to be moving his body again, to get his blood pumping, even if it was just his upper body.

As usual, there was nothing decent on TV, and he was tired of surfing the net. He was beginning to think more and more that it was a waste of time, that there was nothing in the supernatural realm—other than Azazel—that could help him. It only served to discourage him and get him to thinking about the nightmare, which left him reeling with cold, stark fear and revulsion.

He was trying to keep thoughts of the demon blood and Azazel's offer at bay as he made his way silently down the hallway, trying to pretend that it wasn't all hanging over his head like the Sword of Damocles. As he passed by Dean's door, he noticed it was slightly ajar, and, although he couldn't see Bobby and Dean, he could hear their voices.

Bobby was in the middle of saying, "...cattle deaths, electrical storms, and I'm sure you've noticed the temperature fluctuations in San Diego, which is weird—hotter during the day than normal and cooler at night than normal."

"Yeah," answered Dean. "Anything else?"

"Yep. There's been reports of all kinds of electrical devices going haywire all around the city and surrounding areas—clocks stopping, radio signals malfunctioning, even the air traffic control radars going wee-wah. They've had some near-misses at the airport that scared the shit out of everybody."

Dean was silent.

"Here's the kicker," said Bobby. "I checked the dates. The height of the disturbances have been a day or two prior to each of Sam's episodes—his fall when he hurt his shoulder, the time you came home and found him so upset, and the nightmare he had a few nights ago."

"Dammit! I knew it. Ah, Sammy." There was silence, and then Dean said, "I wish he'd fuckin' talk to me, Bobby."

Sam felt his gut clench. He should have known Dean wouldn't leave it alone. Sam didn't know whether to be pissed that Dean and Bobby were going behind his back or relieved that Dean still cared, that he was still looking out for him, despite all the tension that had been between them. It was clear now that Bobby had been doing research on Monday. That's why he hadn't been able to take Sam to his doctor and PT appointments.

"All right, Bobby," said Dean. "Here it is, loaded and ready to go. It's been oiled and cleaned."

Sam's pulse quickened. Dean had to be talking about the Colt.

"Where you been keepin' it?"

"Until a few weeks ago, a safety deposit box."

"A safety deposit box? Ain't that risky, leaving it in someone else's hands?"

"I figured it was better to have it protected by an air-tight, fifty-ton bank vault that can't catch on fire, get flooded, and was impermeable to break-ins. I didn't want to leave it hidden in the Impala because the car could get stolen or, God forbid, wrecked."

Sam could hear the shudder in Dean's voice.

"Of course, any moron who was dumb enough to steal my baby could kiss their ass goodbye," added Dean.

Bobby snorted.

"I was afraid the apartment could get broken into and didn't want to keep it here at the time."

"So, what do we do with the gun now?" asked Bobby.

"I think we should keep it here in the apartment, since this is where Sam is most of the time. You need to have it close by in case anything happens."

"All right. Are we gonna let Sam in on where it is?"

Dean was silent for a moment. "I don't know, Bobby. If Yellow Eyes is messing with his head, I don't know that he should have access to it. Who knows what that bastard might be able to talk him into doing, and if the demon gets a hold of that gun, we're all screwed."

Bobby sighed. "I guess, but it'll piss Sam off to no end if he finds out we've gone behind his back."

_Damn right, Bobby,_ thought Sam bitterly. It made him furious that they thought his psyche was too fragile, that he couldn't take care of himself.

"So what else is new?" said Dean. "He's pissed off at me all the time, anyway." There was a hint of regret hidden under the cynical tone of Dean's voice.

Bobby cleared his throat. "All right. Where do we put it here in the apartment?"

"For now, up here."

Sam could hear Dean moving around. _Up where?_ he thought with frustration. He knew if he tried to open the door any more to see that Dean and Bobby both would sense it. He would have to try to get in there and look when he could be unobserved. If it was somewhere too high and out of his reach, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

"If you feel the need, you can keep it on you," said Dean.

Bobby was quiet for a second and then said, "Let's see how things go. We'll leave it there, like you said, for now."

Sam could hear more movement and guessed Bobby might be heading for the door. Sam quietly pushed himself the rest of the way down the hall, hoping his wheels wouldn't squeak on the floor like they sometimes did. He could pretend he was just now passing by if he got caught, but he didn't want to lie if he didn't have to.

When he got to his room without incident, he sat just inside the doorway, thinking. A plan started to form in his head, a plan that would get him up and walking again; a plan that would avenge the deaths of his mom, dad, and Jessica; a plan that would destroy the Yellow-Eyed Demon. All he needed was the Colt.

_**TBC**_

_**A/N: Thanks for the reviews and, please, keep 'em comin'! You guys are awesome.**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Sam was in TJ's car, wondering where she was taking him. She hadn't told him where they were going, only that she had a surprise for him.

He studied her profile as she drove. Her hair was in a ponytail—no shock there—but it seemed sort of dull and thin. It wasn't that it wasn't clean; he had smelled the faint scent of her shampoo, something flowery and sort of minty, just like always, when she had helped him transfer into her car, but it lacked its usual healthy shine. Everything about her was painfully thin—her hair, her fingers, her wrists, her neck. He couldn't stop thinking about the way Gretchen had acted so concerned and had called TJ out on how skinny she was.

He knew it hadn't happened overnight, but now that it had come to his attention, it was glaringly obvious that TJ wasn't well. He could see that her cheekbones and jawline were too defined, and the part of her collarbone that he could see through the neck of her oversized sweatshirt was much too prominent. When had this happened? He'd spent almost twenty-four/seven with her for the last month, and he hadn't really noticed until a few days ago.

He was worried that there was something wrong with her, something serious that was affecting her appetite, and imagined all kinds of horrible things, like cancer. He wanted her to see a doctor, but she was touchy about the subject and would never really talk to him about it. He wasn't going to let that stop him, though, and decided to broach the subject again. "TJ, I know you don't like to talk about this, but I really think you need to see a doctor."

She stared straight ahead at the road in front of her, jaw tensing.

He knew she was instantly annoyed with him for bringing it up, but he pressed on. "I'm only bugging you about this because I care about you. You're my best friend, and I don't want anything to happen to you."

"I'm your best friend?"

It had sort of just come out, and he thought for a beat and realized it was true. "Yeah. You are."

She looked up at the ceiling of the car for a split second and gave an almost inaudible huff, almost like she was scoffing at his words. "What is this, third grade?"

Sam frowned, wondering why she'd had such a terse reaction.

She glanced at him, and there was a flash of some unidentifiable emotion in her eyes before she turned her attention back to the road. "What about Dean?"

"He's my brother."

"He misses you."

"He sees me every day."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it. Y'all used to be close. I can tell by the way he talks about you."

"Nice try," Sam said wryly, "but I'm not gonna let you change the subject. We were talking about you seeing a doctor."

She kept talking as if he hadn't spoken. "I think Dean won't ask Heather out because of you."

That stopped him cold. "What?"

"He flirts with her relentlessly, but he won't act on it. How many dates has he gone on since your injury?"

Sam snorted. "Dean has never really been the type to go on dates."

"You know what I mean. Dean doesn't strike me as the celibate type. How many one-night stands has he had, then?"

Sam was getting irritated. "How should I know? It's not something I keep up with."

"Has he brought anyone to the apartment?"

He shrugged, although he knew without a shred of doubt that Dean hadn't. "He could be going to Heather's every night of the week, and I wouldn't know."

TJ shot him a skeptical look. "Sure you wouldn't."

Sometimes it irked him that she knew him so well. Dean came home every day after work exhausted and had done so since they'd moved to San Diego, and Sam knew it. He didn't like where this conversation was going and rubbed the back of his neck, which suddenly felt tense. "Why would I be the reason Dean wouldn't hook up with Heather?"

Her tone was reproachful. "Come on, Sam. Why do you think?"

He frowned. "What are you talking about, TJ?"

"Survivor's guilt. I think that's why Dean won't do anything with Heather. As long as you continue to live like Oscar the Grouch and deny yourself any fun, so will he."

Sam leaned his head back on the headrest of the seat, knowing as soon as she said it that it was true, unable to believe he hadn't seen it himself. _Jesus, Dean_. It was beginning to sink in just how much his injury had affected his big brother, too. With a sense of regret for both himself and Dean, he said, "I'm not denying myself, TJ. I _can't_, and you know that."

She shook her head. "No, I don't."

"Whatever," he said, not wanting to rehash that particular point. "If that's what Dean's doing, though, it's crazy."

"Maybe you should talk to him."

"Maybe you should see a doctor," he countered.

She let out a dramatic sigh. "I'm fine, Sam." She'd said it so many times in the last few days that she was starting to sound like a broken record. She tried to change the subject again and asked, "Aren't you curious about where I'm taking you?"

He was a little curious, but he wasn't going to admit that right now. "No. And stop going off on tangents. I'm going to make you a doctor's appointment if you won't do it yourself."

"You know, I have a mama already."

Her accent was getting more pronounced, and he knew she was getting testy. He raised his brows. "That's a good idea, TJ. I bet Gretchen knows how to get in touch with your mom."

"Ooh, scary. Now you're threatenin' me with nosy German girls and my mama who lives a billion miles away in Kentucky."

"I'm serious, TJ."

She huffed. "Sam, I'm not a fool. If I thought there was something wrong with me, I'd go to the damn doctor."

Sam's attention was distracted when she pulled into a newly-built, strip shopping center.

"We're here," she announced.

He looked around for a second, unimpressed at the half-empty shopping center made of pink stucco and more concerned about TJ. He pulled out his cell phone from his jeans pocket and dialed Information. When the operator came on and asked what city, he said, "Yes. San Diego, please. I need the number for the student health services at San Diego State."

TJ's eyes widened. "Sam, what are you doin'?"

He ignored her and asked the operator to connect him to the number. When a receptionist answered, he said, "Yeah, hi. I have a friend who isn't feeling well—"

"I feel fine," she hissed.

"—and I'd like to make her a doctor's appointment. She's a student and should be in your system. Her name is TJ Nelek, N-e-l-e-k," he spelled out. "Sorry. She won't tell me what the initials actually stand for."

TJ crossed her arms and pouted angrily.

After the receptionist located TJ in the system—interestingly, even in the university's health system computer, they only had her initials—he made her an appointment, since he knew her class and work schedules well. When he was done, he hung up the phone and gave her a stern look. "It's done. You have an appointment tomorrow morning at 9:00."

She exhaled harshly through her nose, mouth in a tight line, and looked out her side window, obviously ticked. Then, after a minute, she seemed to switch gears, and there was a crafty gleam in her eye when she looked at Sam. "Okay. Fine." She pronounced it '_fahn_.' "Then I don't want to hear any complaints when I tell you what we're about to do."

Sam was wary. "What?"

"I bought you eight private sessions with that yoga instructor Amber that Karen recommended. That's her studio right there," she said, pointing to the storefront they had parked in front of. "She just moved here and doesn't have her sign up, yet."

She had to be joking. Sam stared dumbly at the plate glass of the building in front of him.

"Happy early birthday."

"My birthday isn't for another two months."

"I know, hence the adjective 'early.'"

He held in a smile. "How do you know when my birthday is?"

"How do you think?"

"Dean," they both said at the same time.

"You didn't really get me yoga lessons, did you?"

"I did. _Private_ ones," she stressed, "and they weren't cheap, so humor me."

He couldn't believe it, but he knew by her expression that she was totally serious. He felt a surge of irritation similar to what he always felt with Dean. "Sorry," he said without much sincerity. "No fucking way."

**XXXXXXXX**

"Well, fine, then," TJ retorted. "There's no fucking way I'm going to that doctor, either." TJ was so pissed at him for making her an appointment. Why did everyone want to treat her like a child? She could take care of herself. It was just that everyone was used to the stout, burly TJ, and now that she was thinner, it freaked everyone out, and they all wanted to meddle in her business.

He gave her the serious Sam look, brows furrowed. "It's for your own good, TJ."

She literally wanted to stomp her feet in frustration. "Yeah? Well, this," she said, indicating the studio with her hand, "is for _your _own good."

He rolled his eyes. "It's yoga. How is that gonna help me?"

"You heard Karen. It's a gentle, less stressful way to build strength."

"I have my therapy exercises. They build strength."

She waved her hand in dismissal. "Yeah, but they're brainless. Yoga is good for your mind as well as your body."

He clenched his jaw stubbornly. "There's nothing wrong with my mind."

"Of course there's not. That's not what I mean." She had run through this conversation a dozen times in her head, trying out different ways to convince him, knowing he would be resistant. No words of wisdom that would magically help sway him had popped into her head, however, and she knew she had her work cut out for her.

She tried to keep the pique from earlier out of her voice and turned more toward him in her seat so she could clarify. "Yoga goes deeper than that, into your psyche, your spirit. It helps you to get in touch with your feelings, helps you feel a connection to your body—_all_ of it."

His expression turned coldly impassive. "I can't connect with my body. I lost that connection when my spinal cord was severed, and nothing can change that."

"That's not what Amber and the many students with and without disabilities she's taught say."

"It's bullshit, TJ. This woman has probably duped thousands of poor saps in wheelchairs, people hoping desperately for some kind of relief from their sucky lives."

"Wow, and that wasn't insensitive at all," she said sarcastically.

He looked away and crossed his arms, getting broody.

TJ noticed how his bicep bulged a little under his shirt and the way his dark-brown hair kind of curled a bit at his ears. Mercy, but he was so good-looking. He made her hot and bothered, and it was all she could do not to blatantly fan herself.

_Focus, TJ, _she admonished herself, coming back to her senses. She cleared her throat and said, "Sam, Karen's too practical and serious to send you to some New Age snake oil peddler. Just come meet Amber. Her injury is higher than yours, and it's amazing what she can do."

"How do you know her injury is higher? You don't even know the level of my injury."

"It doesn't take a genius. Yours is from the belly button down. She explained it to me and guessed you're probably in the T10 to T12 range. She's a T3-4. She has no ab control but still has full use of her arms. She can't feel or move anything from her chest down, yet she does _yoga, _and she's awesome. Please, Sam. Just come meet her. That's all I ask. She's really cool, and I know you'll like her."

He stared out the windshield, jaw wound tighter than a cheap Timex watch. "No."

She sighed. "I'll do it with you."

"No. Yoga is for douches."

"Wow. How very three-year-old caveman of you. I thought you were more open-minded, Sam."

"I guess you thought wrong."

"You should see some of the guys that do yoga—straight guys. Their bodies are amazing and totally badass. There's nothing douchey about them."

"No."

"Please? I bought some cool yoga pants for me and some cool, _very masculine_ shorts for you. They're gonna go to waste if you won't take a session with me at least once."

"I guess you wasted your money, then. Hope you can get a refund."

"Please?"

"No."

"Okay. I hate you for this, but I'll go to that damn doctor's appointment if you'll do this for me."

"You'll go to the doctor anyway, even if I have to get Bobby and Dean to drag you there."

It took all her internal strength and integrity as a person not to say something really nasty to that, but she still remembered how speaking without thinking had really hurt him a few days ago, and she didn't want a repeat. Instead, she chose to take the high road and ignore his boarish threat completely, sighing the sigh of the long-suffering, and tried to explain. "Sam, you have a hostility toward part of your body that's holding you back, filling you with bitterness. It's poisoning you and keeping you from being happy, from accepting things. I think Amber can help you with that."

"How?" he threw out, clearly unconvinced.

She tried to keep the eagerness from her voice, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic, given his cynical mood. It was hard, though, because she just knew if she could convince him to do this, it would make a difference. "Well, for instance," she began, "Amber has her students shake hands with their feet as part of their yoga practice. She has them sit on the floor and spread their legs out, stretching, and lace their fingers through their toes. It's a nice way to say hi to your toes and feet, especially if you can't feel them."

He gave her a massive eye roll. "Oh, come on, TJ! That's friggin' ridiculous."

She stared at him for a second, waiting for his derision to pass, and then said, "Is it ridiculous? When's the last time you touched your toes, Sam, other than maybe in the shower to clean them? When's the last time you acknowledged they're still a part of your body?"

"They're not," he replied, jaw set.

"Yes, they _are_," she said emphatically, "and you just made my case for me."

"It's not gonna matter soon, anyway."

She wasn't expecting that. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing," he said, hastily dismissing the comment. "Take me home. I'm not gonna do this." His tone was hard, and there was no room for any more argument.

She exhaled with frustration and disappointment. She'd thought she would eventually get him to come around.

"Look," he said, his tone softer, "I appreciate that you're trying to help, TJ, but I don't need you to meddle in my life."

"Hello, Kettle. I'm The Pot, and you're black."

He gave her a small, lopsided grin, and then grew serious. "Trying to get you to see a doctor is not the same thing."

"It's _exactly_ the same," she stated, and then started the car in a huff, no longer in the mood for conversation.

She drove in silence on the way to Sam's apartment, and he didn't say anything, either. She sensed that he felt kind of bad for refusing her, and she loved him for that, but she also knew she wasn't going to get him to budge on the yoga thing anytime soon. It was a setback, but it didn't mean she was going to give up.

When they reached his apartment, she parked and got out the frame, seat cushion, and back wheels of his manual chair from the backseat. It was a rigid-frame wheelchair, meaning it didn't fold, so it had to be taken apart to fit it in the car. It amazed her that such a lightweight frame could support a big guy like Sam, but he had explained that it was made out of titanium, a metal which, although light, was extremely strong.

She watched as he popped on one back wheel and then turned the frame around and popped on the other. Then, he put his special seat cushion in, and the chair was ready to go. It took him all of thirty seconds, and she admired the deftness of his fingers and hands and the confidence with which he moved, even though she always worried that he might be doing something that wasn't good for his shoulder. He seemed none the worse for wear, though, and she figured that Sam, probably more than anyone else, didn't want to reinjure his shoulder and go through what he'd been through the last month and a half.

He had put one of his long legs out of the car so he would have more leverage to reassemble the chair, but when he was ready to transfer, he put it back in the car and waited for her to help him with the transfer board. She noticed the old-man shoes he always wore and made a note to herself to try to get him to buy different shoes, something more stylish and less grandpa; that is, when she was in the mood to talk to him again, and he wasn't being so stubborn.

Once he was in his chair, it fit him so well that it was more like an accessory to his personality than something he had to have. The black backrest was low and part of the main frame, and there were no armrests. His posture was almost perfect, and she loved the way his hands gripped the tires and rims, promising unleashed power and speed. His legs were compact and symmetrical, his feet fitting neatly on the footrest thing, and they were tucked closer in, rather than sticking out like an old-style wheelchair.

It definitely wasn't what she thought of when she thought of wheelchairs. It was kind of sporty and cool. Of course, what else should she expect from Sam? It certainly seemed to fit his personality more than the power chair, and he seemed more at ease in it.

He swiveled himself away from the car but then waited for TJ to push him, since the sidewalk leading to his door was at a steep incline.

She attached his wheelchair backpack that she'd been holding to the back of his chair. Since the backrest of his chair was so low, she had to bend down a little to reach the push handles. She started pushing him, trying not to notice how close she was to him or how broad his shoulders were or how his hair smelled nice, like Suave or some other inexpensive shampoo. She always thought the cheap shampoos smelled just as good or better than the ones from the salon. She spent a fortune on fancy shampoo and products, while he probably spent next to nothing, and his hair still looked good. Of course, he would probably look hot with a mullet like Joe Dirt's.

When they reached the door, he spun his chair around and faced her.

He had to look up at her, and TJ almost blushed at how she towered over him. She hated it that she was so freakishly tall.

He cleared his throat and said, "So, uh, should Bobby and I pick you up tomorrow for your appointment, or do you want to come get me? Either way, I'm going with you to make sure you don't miss it."

She couldn't believe his audacity and felt a surge of anger. "I'm not going."

He sighed, as if he had expected as much. "Oh, you're going."

Her eyes widened. Who did he think he was? "When hell freezes over," she said with attitude.

His jaw tensed, and he had an earnest look on his face. "Look, TJ, you need to see a doctor. You're not eating, and, honestly, you look like shit."

She felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her, at first hurt by his words, but then fury and an overwhelming sense of betrayal spread through her. "Thanks, Sam," she said with bitter sarcasm. "You really know how to charm a girl."

"TJ, I just mean you look unhealthy," he said, giving her the puppy-dog eyes. "I'm afraid there's something wrong."

This time, the eyes didn't work on her. They just made her madder, and she turned on her heel and walked away, ignoring the fact that he was yelling her name, calling for her to come back.

**XXXXXXXX**

TJ unlocked the door to her apartment, shaking with anticipation, a plastic grocery sack full of food hanging off each arm. It was all the things she'd denied herself for so long, her favorite comfort foods—Oreos, Ben & Jerry's, Ruffles potato chips, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, and pizza.

She hastily placed the bags on the counter and started to prepare the mac and cheese using the microwave method. As she waited for the pasta to cook, she heard another text alert on her phone. It was probably another one from Sam, but she couldn't think about that right now.

They all wanted her to eat—Sam, Dean, Heather, Gretchen—even a few strangers who had made comments about how thin she was in classes and at Shorty's. Some people had nerve, she'd give them that. So she would show them. They didn't know what eating was.

When the pasta was done, she quickly stirred in the powdered cheese sauce and could hardly wait to dip her spoon in it and lift it to her mouth. She was shaking harder now and her heart was racing, the smell of the cheese causing her mouth to water in anticipation of the delicious ecstasy she knew was coming.

She was so hungry it was painful, like her stomach was trying to eat itself, but that was all about to change. She wouldn't think about the consequences, wouldn't think about the guilt that was sure to follow. She took the first bite, and there was no turning back.

She made her way through each food item one at a time. At first, she got a high from each bite, savoring the flavor and the thrill, the texture of it in her mouth, but when her stomach got full, her brain urged her to keep going, fortifying itself for the next period of starvation that was sure to come once she came to her senses. She could feel her belly stretching painfully, but she kept going, consuming a bag of Ruffles potato chips with Ranch dip, all of the frozen pizza that she'd cooked, a pint of Ben & Jerry's, and an entire package of Oreo's. She was like a robot, an eating machine.

When she was done, she sat on her couch, looking at the devastation in front of her. Her coffee table looked like a mini garbage dump, empty food packaging strewn everywhere, used paper napkins, crumbs—all damning her. For a moment she took it all in, feeling nothing, emotionally spent. There was only silence, no one to judge her; but then the guilt began to set in, and there was no harsher judge than herself.

What was wrong with her? She _was_ sick—sick in the head—and she hated herself for it, for her loss of control. This was one of the worst binges she'd had in a long time, if ever. She knew it was wrong, knew she needed help, but she was so ashamed and didn't want anyone to know.

She'd been upset by Sam's words, had told herself she needed the comfort of food, but it wasn't his fault. Deep down, she knew what he'd meant, knew that he hadn't been implying she was ugly, but, nevertheless, it stung. Even with all the weight she'd lost, she still wasn't pretty. All the starving, the constant, gnawing hunger, what good had it done? She was still the same person, only now she was plain Jane _and_ unhealthy-looking, instead of just plain Jane.

She had been so hungry, and she just couldn't take it anymore. Her argument with Sam had given her what she was looking for—justification, an excuse to eat, an excuse to let herself go.

Almost as if in a trance, she slowly got up from the couch and went into her bathroom. She bent over in front of the toilet, raised the lid and the seat, braced her elbows on her knees, and then stuck her fingers down her throat.

It didn't take much gagging to start the flow, probably because her stomach was so full, filled way beyond its capacity. She could sort of tell, to her disgust, which food was coming up. The chunks of food made her nauseous for real, and she almost didn't need to stick her fingers down her throat anymore to make herself vomit.

When it started coming out her nose, she stopped. That was round one. She got a damp cloth, wiped the filth from her face, and blew her nose, sickened by the mucus mixed with pieces of food that came out of it.

She could see in the mirror that her face looked a little swollen, and she was getting the tiny, telltale red dots of damaged blood vessels around her eyes from the straining. They shone like a beacon to TJ, but, hopefully, when she went to work later, Dean and Heather wouldn't notice or would think they were freckles. They'd never said anything before, so why would they start tonight?

She figured that she'd only thrown up around half to two-thirds of the food, so she braced herself for round two. She had to get it all out, wanted to be free of the self-loathing and smothering guilt. She kept at it this time, not stopping, no matter how painful and hard on her body she knew it was. She just wanted it all out and to be done with it.

When she felt the first sharp pain and saw the bright-red blood, at first, she was in denial. She'd never seen blood before when she'd done it, and there was only a little bit. Maybe it was some of the tomato sauce from the pizza, she told herself. But it got darker in color, looked more like real blood, and there was more of it. When the pain started getting worse, she knew without a doubt that something was wrong, so she stopped.

She usually didn't feel any pain, except for the usual discomfort of a sore throat and sore stomach muscles that had been used the wrong way. It was the way she always felt after doing such a vicious thing to her body, but this pain was different. It was heavier, stronger, and it really fucking hurt.

She wiped her face again, gargled with water, then Listerine, then thoroughly brushed her teeth. When she was done with that, she got a Clorox disinfectant wipe from under the vanity sink and wiped down the toilet, making sure nothing had splashed onto the floor. Finally, she took a quick shower, knowing that this particular bout of purging had been more violent than usual, and she felt dirty, felt like she would never be rid of the smell. She forced herself to ignore the increasing pain in her abdomen and chest.

After she was dried off and dressed, she set to cleaning the mess in the living room, no longer feeling the guilt of the binge—just the overwhelming self-loathing and shame that always came after she purged. She turned on the TV, trying to get her mind off of everything, vowing, as always, that this was the last time, that she would never cheat again, that she would never lose control again, that there would never be another need to make herself throw up, but knowing deep down that she was lying to herself.

When she was done cleaning, she turned off the mindless noise of the TV, unable to concentrate on anything, feeling more of the sharp ache in her upper abdomen just under the breastbone and in her chest, feeling short of breath and lightheaded.

She heard her phone beep, retrieved it from her purse, and then lay down on the sofa, feeling like crap. There were four texts and three voice mails from Sam. She stared at the phone as if she'd never seen it before and didn't know what to do with it, feeling hollow inside.

Finally, barely registering that her vision was blurred and there were tears running down her cheeks, she deleted all the messages he'd left without reading them or listening to them. She didn't want to hear his voice or read what he'd texted, knowing he was probably trying to make amends because he was sensitive like that, because he hadn't meant to hurt her feelings, because he was a good guy and a good friend. She didn't deserve him, and she knew that he would be horrified and repulsed if he knew what she'd just done.

She certainly was.

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam was in his room, sitting in his manual chair and staring at his phone, willing it to ring. He was really worried about TJ. He'd been leaving voice mails and text messages for hours, now, and she hadn't answered a single one. It wasn't like her, even if she was mad at him, and he thought of the look on her face when he'd told her she looked like shit. A light had seemed to go out in her eyes, and the memory of it left a tight knot in his chest.

She had taken it the wrong way, and he'd been an idiot to say it, knowing how sensitive she was about things like that. He had immediately wanted to explain what he'd meant, that he was just really concerned about her, but she wouldn't listen and had gone to her car without ever looking back at him, no matter how many times he yelled her name.

He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes past when her shift had started at Shorty's, and he was about to ask Bobby to take him there so he could see her in person, when his cell rang. His heartbeat picked up, but he was disappointed when he saw on the screen that it was Dean. "Yeah?" he answered.

"_Sam, have you heard from TJ? She didn't show up for work."_

"What?" Sam could barely hear Dean for the noise of the restaurant and bar in the background and hoped he had heard wrong.

Dean yelled louder. _"TJ didn't show up for work. She's never missed a day since I've worked with her, and it's not like her not to call in and let me know. She wouldn't leave Heather and me shorthanded." _There was a slight pause, and then he said, _"She didn't answer her phone. I'm thinking about calling 911."_

Sam felt fear begin to gnaw at his belly.

"_I'd go check on her, but it's just me and Heather, and we're covered up."_

"No," said Sam decisively, his adrenaline beginning to pump. "It's okay. Bobby and I will go."

"_All right. Call and let us know how she is once you know something."_

"Yeah. I will. I need her address," said Sam.

"_Shit. I'll have to go in the back office to the employee files."_

"Okay. Call me back when you get it. I know the apartment complex because she's talked about it, but I don't have the apartment number."

"_Give me five minutes," _said Dean, and he was gone.

Sam wheeled into the living room where Bobby was sitting on the couch watching TV. Without preamble, he said, "Bobby, I need you to take me to TJ's apartment. She didn't show up for work."

Bobby stood, already heading for the front door, putting on his trucker cap, which he was rarely ever seen without. He grabbed the keys to his clunker pickup off the glass-top dining table. "All right, kid. Let's go."

On the way there, Bobby said, "Have you tried to call her?"

"Yeah. She's not answering. I've got a bad feeling, Bobby."

Bobby looked at the road ahead of him, a grim expression on his face.

"Have you noticed that she's lost a lot of weight?" asked Sam.

"Well, she's always seemed a little too thin to me, but it's kinda hard to tell with the clothes she wears."

"She's been sapped of energy, lately, too. I tried to get her to go see a doctor, and it pissed her off." Sam drew in a deep breath and then exhaled, still feeling the tightness in his chest. "I told her she looked like shit."

Bobby sighed. "I take it she wasn't exactly thrilled by the compliment?"

Sam gritted his teeth for a second. "No. She took it the wrong way. I know I shouldn't have said it, but I tried everything I could think of to convince her, and nothing was working. I guess I thought brutal honesty might get through to her."

"Well, if she didn't show up for work, that don't sound like TJ. It sounds to me like your concern is justified. Something obviously ain't right, so don't beat yourself up. Trust me, she won't stay mad at you."

Sam snorted. "I don't know. You didn't see her face earlier."

"She'll come around," Bobby said sagely.

Dean called back with TJ's apartment number, and shortly after, they were in her complex and found her building. It was a typical nineties-style apartment complex, and her brown stucco building was divided by a large breezeway with two flights of concrete and metal stairs in the middle. Her teal Honda was parked nearby.

Once Sam was in his chair, he was chagrined to find that TJ's apartment was on the second story, and the stairs were impeding his way to her door. "Fuck," he said to no one in particular.

"You want me to go up and knock?" asked Bobby.

Sam hated being left out, but he had no choice. "Yeah. See if she answers."

Bobby nodded and went up the stairs. Sam couldn't see him once he reached the top, but he could hear Bobby knock on the door.

"TJ?" Bobby called, his voice echoing in the breezeway. There was no answer, and after a moment, Bobby knocked again, louder. "TJ? It's Bobby and Sam. You in there?"

Still no answer.

Sam was getting more frustrated and anxious by the moment. He knew she was in there—he could feel it—so why wasn't she coming to the door? _Dammit!_ He wanted up those fucking stairs.

Just then, one of the doors of the ground level apartments opened, and two fraternity-type guys walked out. Both were big, muscular guys, one with dark hair and one blond, both dressed in shorts, t-shirts, and running shoes. The dark-haired guy carried a football.

Not even hesitating, Sam said, "Hey, could you guys maybe give me a lift up the stairs?"

They looked at each other for a second and then the blond said, "Sure, man. What do we do?"

From above, Bobby yelled, "She ain't answering, Sam."

"I'm coming up, Bobby. I need you to come down and carry my chair back up."

Bobby's footsteps neared the top of the stairs. "How in the hell—oh." He looked shocked when he peered down and saw the two burly guys and obviously figured out what Sam was planning to do. He quickly schooled his features, though, as if it were every day Sam asked for help like this.

Sam would have found it a little humorous under different circumstances, but, right now, he just wanted up the damn stairs so he could get to TJ.

The dark-haired guy set his football down next to the wall, and then they both approached Sam.

"Okay. You," said Sam, looking at the dark-haired guy.

"Zach."

"Ralph," the blond offered.

Sam raised his brows, a little surprised by the name. It didn't seem to fit the jockish frat boy.

Ralph rolled his eyes. "It's a family name."

"Right. Okay," said Sam. "Zach, you need to grab me under my armpits and wrap your arms around my chest. Watch my right shoulder. I just had surgery on it not too long ago."

Zach looked a little wary at that, but didn't argue with Sam's authoritative tone.

"Okay. Ralph, I need you to grab my legs."

By that time, Bobby had made it back down the stairs and was ready to carry Sam's chair up so it would be waiting when Sam made it to the top.

The two guys did as Sam instructed and carried him up both flights of stairs, where Bobby had Sam's chair ready to go. After Sam was situated back in it, he wasted no time and pushed himself over to TJ's door and knocked forcefully. "TJ? It's Sam. If you don't open the door, I'm gonna pick the lock."

They were met with more silence from inside the apartment.

Sam reached behind him, unzipped his wheelchair backpack, and felt around until he found the case with his lock-picking tools.

Bobby raised his brows.

Sam almost smiled. "Old habits die hard."

Bobby smirked, and Sam began to pick the locks. It had been over a year since he'd done it, but it was still like second nature to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the two frat boys look at each other with unease.

Zach cleared his throat and said, "Hey, man. Maybe she's just not there."

"She's there," said Sam, trying to focus on the lock and not think about why she wasn't coming to the door.

"You do actually _know _TJ, right? I mean, you're not, like, breaking into her apartment to steal something."

Sam didn't even look at the guy, having just gotten the doorknob unlocked and starting on the deadbolt. "Do I look like a burglar to you?"

The guys still seemed dubious.

Bobby shot them a look. "You morons. It ain't like he can make a fast getaway, now, is it?"

Zach colored a bit. "Sorry. Just making sure. TJ's a cool girl," he said defensively.

Sam got the deadbolt unlocked and took a deep breath before twisting the knob and opening the door. He wheeled himself into her apartment, noticing she had carpet, which made it a little more difficult to push. He didn't give it another thought, though, when he saw TJ lying curled up on the sofa.

Bobby and the two guys had followed him into the apartment, and Sam quickly put Zach and Ralph to work. "I need you two to move that coffee table so I can get to her," said Sam, feeling his heart start to hammer in his chest.

TJ hadn't stirred, even with all the commotion of them entering, and that fact alone scared the shit out of Sam.

Once the coffee table was out of the way, Sam made it to TJ's side, pushing his chair up next to the sofa.

She was lying on her side, facing him, curled in on herself. Her eyes were closed, and her long, dark lashes and the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones were stark contrasts to the paleness of her skin. She was breathing too fast, like she was having a hard time drawing in a full breath of air.

Her hair was down instead of in its usual ponytail, and Sam reached over and brushed a few soft strands out of the way, feeling for the pulse on her neck. It was much too rapid. "TJ? It's Sam. Can you hear me?"

Her only response was a slight crease in her brow.

"Wake up, Teej. Open your eyes for me." _Please, God, let her wake up. Let her be okay._

She swallowed thickly and then groaned, grimacing in pain, but she never opened her eyes.

He could see that her lips were kind of blue, and he gently felt her forehead and cheeks with his hand. Her skin was hot to the touch, obviously feverish, yet she was ghostly pale—so pale that he could see tiny freckles around her eyes that he'd never noticed before.

Sam tried to keep panic at bay and looked at Bobby. "Call 911 _now_. I think she's going into shock."

_**TBC**_


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N: Unfortunately, I haven't earned a medical degree since the beginning of this story, so, again, I apologize for any inaccuracies in this and subsequent chapters. Also, I was too lazy to look up hospital protocol, so I just made up my own. I suspect each hospital varies, anyway.**_

**Chapter 11**

Sam and Bobby finally made it to the surgical waiting area at the hospital after getting stuck for an hour in rush hour traffic. It had been the most frustrating, nerve-racking experience of Sam's life, and he would have completely blown a gasket if Bobby hadn't been the voice of reason and kept him calm.

Thank God the ambulance with TJ in it had been able to make its way fairly quickly through the stalled traffic, and TJ had made it to the hospital way before Bobby and Sam.

Luckily, Gretchen had still been at work and at the hospital when Sam found her number in TJ's phone, which Bobby'd had the presence of mind to grab from TJ's apartment, along with her purse. Gretchen had sprung into action, finding where TJ had been admitted and filling out paperwork while Bobby and Sam were on their way.

The waiting area was sparsely occupied, and Sam immediately spotted Gretchen sitting alone in a bank of blue chairs along one wall, wearing the usual work clothes of the PTs at the hospital—a polo shirt and khaki pants.

She looked up and caught his eye, giving him a strained half-smile, worry etched on her face.

Sam wheeled himself over to her. "How is she?" he asked, foregoing any pleasantries.

"Not good."

His heart sank, and he felt almost lightheaded. "You said on the phone they just took her to surgery?"

"Yeah."

"What's wrong with her?"

Gretchen looked up at Bobby, who stood next to Sam, and gave him a wan smile. "Hi. I'm Gretchen, TJ's old roommate."

Sam got the feeling she was stalling, and his worry increased, his body tensing.

Bobby nodded to her. "Bobby Singer, a friend of Sam and TJ."

Gretchen patted the seat of the chair next to her. "Have a seat, Mr. Singer."

Bobby shot Sam a look and then walked around Sam's wheelchair in order to sit next to Gretchen.

"Gretchen," Sam prompted, his words deliberate, "what's wrong with TJ?" He was losing his patience—what little of it he had left.

Gretchen took a deep breath, leaned forward a little, and looked Sam directly in the eye the way she had the day he met her. "She has a rupture in her esophagus. It's very serious."

Sam let that soak in, his heart stopping for a split second.

Gretchen looked intense. "I'll explain as much as I can in a minute, but I need to know something, first. You said when I talked to you on the phone that you had been with her earlier in the morning, and she was fine, right?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"She didn't seem like she was in pain or feverish?"

"No."

"Did you—when you saw her earlier in the day, before you found her in the apartment, did you notice any red dots around her eyes?"

"What?"

"I know it sounds weird, but think back. They might have looked a lot like freckles."

Sam frowned, thinking back to when he'd been in the car with TJ at the strip center where the yoga studio was. He'd been close enough to her that he would have seen the dots if she'd had them, and then he remembered seeing what he thought were freckles around her eyes when she'd been lying on the sofa. "I saw them when I found her in the apartment, but not before that."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

She nodded, as if he had confirmed something. "Okay. That's good news. If an esophageal rupture is caught within the first twenty-four hours, there's a seventy-five percent chance of survival."

Sam frowned, wondering what the red dots had to do with anything, but he felt slightly relieved. The muscles in his upper body loosened a bit, although a seventy-five-percent chance of survival still wasn't a guarantee.

"Thank God you guys went to check on her, Sam. The ER doc said she was in the early stages of shock, which can be fatal if not dealt with in time."

"I know," Sam said quietly.

"And thank God you called me. I was able to give them a good history on TJ, which probably helped them figure out what was wrong much quicker. Esophageal ruptures are often misdiagnosed."

Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his legs. "So, is it just a matter of repairing the rupture now?"

She exhaled. "This is out of my area of expertise, but I think they will repair the rupture and clean out the mediastinum, which is the middle section of the chest cavity. When her esophagus ruptured, food and fluid more than likely leaked into the area, which can cause inflammation and infection."

"Jesus," said Sam, holding his head in his hands.

"What could have caused this?" asked Bobby in his usual practical manner.

Gretchen didn't answer, and Sam looked up to see that she had leaned back in her chair.

She looked grim. "This particular kind of rupture is called Boerhaave's syndrome. It's caused by violent vomiting." There was a heavy pause, and then she said, "TJ never told you that she had an eating disorder, did she?" It was more a statement than a question, like she already knew the answer.

"No, she didn't." Sam glanced at Bobby, who looked surprised and concerned, and then he refocused on Gretchen, feeling his heart plunge down to his stomach.

She tucked her blond hair behind her ears in a nervous gesture and continued. "She started extreme dieting when she was a freshmen in college, and that's when she started purging, too. She wasn't my roommate when we lived in the dorms—I was a year ahead of her in school at the time—but we lived on the same floor and got to be really good friends. By the time she was a sophomore, she had lost a lot of weight, but she was good at hiding it. Things didn't come to a head until she got sick with gastritis, which is an inflammation of the lining of the stomach.

"TJ was lucky. Her Residential Advisor was shrewd and knew the signs of bulimia, so the RA figured out what was going on and called TJ's parents. They got her a doctor and a counselor, and TJ was diagnosed as bulimic with anorexic tendencies. It means she starves herself like an anorexic until she can't stand it anymore, and then she goes on a binge, consuming huge amounts of food, and purges it."

Sam sat back in his chair, stunned by what Gretchen had just told him. He'd spent so much time with TJ. How could he have not seen it, the weight loss, the fact that he hardly ever saw her eat anything? He'd known that something was wrong, but an eating disorder had never occurred to him. He felt like such an idiot for not figuring it out.

As if reading his mind, Gretchen said, "She's good at hiding it, Sam. It's part of the disorder. They don't want anyone to interfere, and, also, they're ashamed of it. I knew her for two years and never had a clue."

Gretchen drew her legs up into her chair and hugged her knees, suddenly looking like a young girl instead of a medical professional. "I'm the one who dropped the ball here." Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she swallowed. "I knew she had relapsed when I saw her with you the other day. God, she was so thin. It was more noticeable because I hadn't seen her for a few months. I _knew_, and I didn't do anything."

"Hey," said Sam, "this isn't on you."

She shook her head. "I should have called her mom immediately, but I was hoping TJ would talk to me. I called TJ several times but always got her voice mail. I knew if I called her mom behind her back she would never speak to me again, so I was hoping she would come around without having to do that." She rested her forehead on her knees.

Sam closed his eyes, aching for TJ, hating that she'd been trying to deal with everything on her own, that she was ashamed. He understood what it was like all too well and was heartbroken by the fact that TJ must have been feeling the same painful feelings of humiliation and embarrassment that he'd felt, only for different reasons. She'd been there for him, and he'd finally opened up to her. It had felt good to be able to talk to somebody, and he was sorry that she hadn't been able to do the same.

He drew in a deep breath and exhaled. "It's not your fault, Gretchen. You couldn't have known this would happen."

She looked up and wiped tears from her cheeks. "I knew it was a possibility. I've learned a lot about bulimia from knowing TJ, and I knew this is one of the complications, although it's extreme. When you told me her symptoms, I suspected immediately what had happened. The dots..." She trailed off, giving a small, apologetic smile, eyes filled with sadness. "The dots around the eyes are a sign of purging. They're blood vessels that have burst from the strain of vomiting."

No one seemed to know what to say to that, and then Bobby finally said, "Don't beat yourself up, kid. Hindsight's twenty/twenty."

They all sat in silence for a while after that, staring at the TV that replayed the same "breaking news" stories on CNN over and over. It seemed like years since TJ had been taken into surgery, but, in reality, it had only been around two hours. For Sam, the waiting was excruciating.

Bobby finally got up to go get coffee. When he came back, he had some ham-and-cheese sandwiches and three small bags of Lay's potato chips that he'd found in a vending machine somewhere, along with thermal containers of scalding-hot coffee, which he passed out to everyone.

Sam and Gretchen both thanked him, but Sam had no appetite, and Gretchen didn't look like she was in the mood to eat, either. It had been a while since Sam had any food, though, so he made an effort, not really tasting any of it. When he was done, Bobby helped him transfer to one of the waiting room chairs next to Gretchen for a change of position, even though they didn't have a transfer board.

The only time Sam really needed the board now was if he needed to do a transfer by himself or if TJ or Karen were helping him. In the last few days, he'd been transferring without the board if someone stronger, like Dean or Bobby, were there to help him. He knew Karen probably wouldn't approve, but it really didn't tax his bad shoulder any, and it was less hassle than always having to have the board handy.

They sipped their coffees for a few minutes, and then Gretchen said, "Oh, by the way. You're TJ's brother."

Sam frowned. "What?"

"TJ's parents can't be here for a while, so I told the critical care staff that her 'brother' would be here so that they'd let you in to see her. I know TJ would want you there with her."

Sam snorted, remembering the way they had parted the last time he'd seen her. "Don't be so sure of that."

"Oh, I'm sure," said Gretchen with unexpected certainty. "She'll be in the ICU once she gets out of recovery, and they may not let anyone in to see her except immediate family. They won't tell you anything about her condition unless you're family, either, so I made you her brother." She smiled. "Your name is Sam Nelek."

Bobby snorted in derision.

Sam gave Bobby a knowing, halfhearted smile. As hunters, they'd had so many aliases in their lifetimes they'd lost count.

"I told her parents about it. Her mom already knew all about you."

Sam was surprised by that.

"Her parents are pretty cool—kind of nutty, actually—and her mom joked that she'd always wanted a son, so don't worry about them blowing your cover once they get here."

"So what are my parents' names?" asked Sam.

"Vernon and Ferna Sue, otherwise known as Vern and Fern," she said, in a pretty good imitation of TJ's Kentucky accent.

Sam smiled, despite his worry. It seemed somehow fitting that those would be the names of TJ's parents.

"Her mom is taking the first flight she can get out tomorrow, so hopefully she'll be here around noon. I'm going to pick her up from the airport. They live in a small town that isn't near a major airport, so it's difficult to find a decent flight. Her dad is driving out, but it'll take him probably at least two days to get here."

Bobby said, "Why ain't her dad flyin' out with her mom?"

"Too expensive. They're not exactly rich. Her dad's a farmer and her mom's a school teacher."

Bobby nodded.

Another couple of hours went by, and it was getting late into the evening. Sam looked at his watch and figured Dean and Heather would probably be getting there soon, after they got things closed up at Shorty's. Sam had called and given them an update after Gretchen had explained things.

Just when Sam thought he would go crazy from the anxiety of waiting, a tall, salt-and-pepper-haired doctor in his forties wearing green surgical scrubs came into the waiting area. "TJ Nelek?"

Sam raised his hand to get the doctor's attention. "I'm her brother," he lied with ease. He'd learned a long time ago how to play a part convincingly, and he had no qualms about it. He'd do anything to find out how TJ was doing and to be allowed to see her.

The doctor came over and shook Sam's hand. "I'm Dr. Wahl. I'm the thoracic surgeon that did your sister's surgery."

"I'm Sam."

The doctor pulled one of the waiting room chairs over in front of Sam and sat down, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. He had a sort of exuberance that was oddly reassuring, like he was excited about his job and knew what he was doing.

Sam's wheelchair was at the end of the row of chairs that he was sitting in, so he didn't know if the doctor had clued in that he couldn't stand, but he liked the fact that the doctor pulled up the chair and was at his eye level.

Dr. Wahl glanced at Gretchen and Bobby and raised a brow at Sam, as if asking if it was okay to speak in front of them.

"It's okay," said Sam. "They're close friends. This is Gretchen Koenig and Bobby Singer."

The doctor nodded in polite acknowledgment and looked at Gretchen. "You're the friend that gave the patient's history?"

Gretchen gave him a quick, polite smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Yes."

The doctor noticed the hospital logo on her shirt. "What department are you in?"

"I'm a PT for the sports medicine facility."

"Ah, yes. Well, Gretchen, you probably saved Miss Nelek's life."

To Sam, he said, "The rupture was pretty large—four centimeters—and it's located in the lower third of her esophagus, near where it meets the stomach. There was a lot of leakage. The quick diagnosis of the rupture has hopefully helped us avoid any severe contamination or sepsis. There was, however, moderate mediastinitis, which is inflammation in the tissues of the mid chest caused by food contents spilling from the esophagus. She was put on aggressive, intravenous, broad-spectrum antibiotic therapy and fluid-replacement therapy to combat the mediastinitis, prevent sepsis, and to reverse the shock."

Sam swallowed a lump in his throat as the direness of TJ's condition was rapidly becoming apparent.

"During the surgery, we repaired the rupture and debrided and irrigated the field surrounding it. I inserted a Silastic mediastinal tube for drainage of the mid chest area. There was—"

Sam's right leg had started to spasm, jiggling up and down, distracting the doctor. Embarrassed, Sam cleared his throat and said, "Sorry. It's—I have spasticity in my legs."

The doctor glanced at the wheelchair, then back to Sam and nodded, and that was the only reaction he showed. "Anyway, as I was about to say, there was significant pleural effusion, which was caused by the mediastinal inflammation. Pleural effusion is extra fluid that accumulates in the fluid-filled space that surrounds the lungs. It was making it difficult for—you call her TJ?"

Sam nodded.

"—TJ to breathe, so we put in a chest tube in order to drain fluid from that area, as well. She'll probably be on a ventilator for at least a day or two until we're sure she can breathe easily again." He paused for a second. "Do you have any questions, Sam, before I go on?"

Sam shook his head. He didn't have any questions so far, but it was disheartening that the doctor wasn't done.

"She won't be able to eat or drink anything for at least five days because we want to completely bypass her esophagus and stomach in order to give the sutures time to heal, but then we'll do an esophagogram to check for leakage around the repair. We've inserted what's called a gastrostomy tube or G-tube into her stomach to relieve gas pressure and any fluids that might accumulate, and we've placed a feeding jejunostomy or J-tube into her small intestine for nutritional support. She'll receive a continuous flow of a special formula for feeding until the esophagogram is performed, and if that comes back clear, she should be able to start eating a soft diet within twenty-four hours after that."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, feeling a headache coming on, hating what the upcoming days would hold for TJ. His right leg was getting worse, jiggling like crazy, and he realized he was overdue for a dose of his antispasticity med. He was thinking that he should call Dean and ask him to go home and get his medication, when Dean and Heather walked into the waiting area, not saying anything once they saw that Sam was talking to the surgeon. Sam acknowledged them with a nod and then refocused on Dr. Wahl.

Dr. Wahl looked sympathetic. "I know it sounds like she's got more tubes than the London subway, but, hopefully, they can be removed fairly quickly if all goes well."

"Is she gonna be okay?"

The doctor drew in a deep breath and exhaled. "I won't lie to you, Sam. She's stable right now but still critical, and there's a lot of complications that can arise from a rupture like this. There's a high risk of infection and the possibility that a leak could develop in her esophagus where the repair is, but if all goes well, she should eventually make a full recovery—at least physically."

The meaning of the doctor's words hung ominously in the room for a moment before he continued. "Obviously, in light of everything that's happened, I'm sure you're aware that TJ's eating disorder is a very serious matter. Once she's over the initial health crisis, she'll need to be evaluated by someone in our psychiatric department."

Dean and Heather looked at each other, but they didn't seem very surprised, and both Gretchen and Bobby kept their faces neutral.

Sam felt a pang of sympathy for TJ, knowing how she was going to hate having to see a shrink.

"Any questions?" asked Dr. Wahl.

Sam thought for a moment. "No, not right now." He offered his hand for a shake. "Thank you, Doctor."

The doctor shook his hand firmly. "If you think of any questions, the ICU nurses here are fantastic, but if there's something they can't answer, have them page me." He put a sympathetic hand on Sam's shoulder, the good one. "Don't worry. We'll take good care of her," he added reassuringly. "You should be able to see her in a few minutes, once they have her settled in the ICU. There were no major complications while she was in recovery. If you guys want to move up to the ICU waiting area, a nurse will let you know when she's ready." He stood to leave. "Oh, do you take baclofen or something for your spasticity? If you need a dose, I can prescribe it for you and have it brought up here."

Dean spoke up. "Uh, thanks, Doc. I got it for him."

The doctor looked at Dean as if noticing him for the first time. He just nodded, though, not asking who Dean was or why he would have gotten Sam's medication. He nodded and was gone in that purposeful way that doctors had, as if he was needed somewhere else.

**XXXXXXXX**

A few minutes turned into another hour. Sam, Gretchen, Bobby, Dean, and Heather all sat around the ICU waiting room—all worried, tired, and not knowing what to say. Sam's leg had stopped spasming after his medication kicked in, and he was glad that Dean had thought to swing by the apartment and bring it to him, along with his overdue dose of antidepressant—and the painkiller, just in case.

Finally, a nurse in blue scrubs came into the waiting room and looked around. Her eyes stopped on Sam, who was, again, in his wheelchair. "Sam?" Obviously, word had gotten around that TJ's "brother" used a wheelchair.

"Yeah," he said, nodding and exhaling a relieved breath.

"Your sister is TJ Nelek?"

"Yeah."

"She's ready. You want to follow me?"

Sam nodded and pushed himself past the others, who shifted in their seats and watched him as he left. He felt bad that Gretchen couldn't come, since she had actually known TJ a lot longer, but she had been right. They were only letting immediate family in to see TJ at this time, and he was grateful that Gretchen had had the presence of mind to come up with the ruse that he was TJ's brother.

She had been afraid to say that she was TJ's sister, since she was an employee of the hospital and might easily run into someone she knew. Of course, if Sam ran into Dr. Salazar or Dr. Ogden, he was screwed, but he wasn't going to worry about that right now. Besides, it wouldn't matter in a few days when TJ was better and her visitors weren't restricted. He refused to think there could be any other scenario.

He followed the nurse past the bustling nurses' station, absently noting that the area looked, smelled, and sounded familiar from when he'd been in the ICU after he'd hurt his shoulder. He remembered what it was like, the smells of antiseptic, food, and medicines; the voices of nurses talking to each other and unaware of how loud and disruptive they were; the clattering of various types of carts being pushed around; the beeps of monitors; the bright lights; the constant interruptions and poking and prodding of the staff. It was hard to rest in an ICU unless you were unconscious or drugged.

It was a large hospital complex, and this was a different ICU than the one he'd been in, but he still didn't like it. It made him uncomfortable, both from bad memories and because it was disturbing that TJ was there.

The nurse finally stopped at the open door of a room with an observation window, which, of course, was above Sam's head, and he couldn't see through it. He knew it must be TJ's room, though, and he took a deep breath, steeling himself.

The nurse with the blue scrubs spoke to someone inside the room. "Hey, Patti. The patient's brother is here to see her."

Patti, who he assumed was another nurse, apparently said it was okay for him to come in, because the blue-scrub nurse stood aside, making room for him to get through the doorway.

He pushed himself into the room and saw TJ lying in a bed which had been positioned almost more like a recliner, her head and upper body at a thirty- to forty-degree angle, legs slightly bent. She was hooked up to all kinds of IVs, tubes, wires, monitors, and a ventilator. She was wearing a hospital gown that was loose and made her look small and childlike.

He took in another deep breath, fighting the narrowing of his throat.

Patti, a pretty, chocolate-skinned nurse with short hair that sort of reminded him of Halle Berry, smiled reassuringly at him. She was standing by TJ's bed with a portable computer cart, typing something into a laptop. "You must be Sam, right?"

"Yeah," he said, barely getting his voice to work.

She nodded. "Dr. Wahl said you were here for TJ. I'm almost done with this," she said, indicating the computer, "and then you can have some time alone with her. I'm Patti, by the way. I'll be TJ's primary nurse for tonight."

He tried to smile politely, but it felt more like a grimace. This was all too familiar. It hadn't been that long ago that he had visited Dean in an ICU like this after the car crash with the semi. Dean had been on the brink of death, and their dad hadn't even made it to the hospital before he'd died.

Sam thought with anguish that maybe it was him. Maybe he was cursed, maybe because of the demon blood. Maybe he wasn't supposed to have anyone to love. Everyone he touched seemed to wind up dead or hurt in some way.

Patti broke into his thoughts. "I know all this looks scary, but she's doing well. She's a fighter. She was bucking the ventilator in recovery, so we had to give her a pretty heavy sedative once we were satisfied that she was responsive. We can't let her get too agitated because those J-tubes can sometimes come out pretty easily."

She eyed an IV pole that had a bag of clear liquid hanging from it next to TJ's bed. A tube from the bag fed into a white machine with a small screen and flat buttons, which was positioned lower on the pole, and then another tube ran out of the bottom of the machine and disappeared under the thin, white sheet covering TJ loosely from her waist down. Sam assumed the tubing went to TJ's lower abdomen.

"Dr. Wahl explained that he put a J-tube in and what it is, right?" asked Patti.

"Yeah, he did."

"Good. That machine you see is a feeding pump, and it regulates the amount of formula she receives automatically. She's being given saline for the first twenty-four hours so that we don't shock her system and cause what's called osmotic diarrhea, but then we'll start her on a continuous feed of formula so she can get the proper nutrients and hydration that she needs. The concentration of the formula will get thicker once her intestines are in full swing again."

Patti explained that TJ's chest tubes were being suctioned by and draining into a square-looking machine with liquid measuring chambers. It was hanging on the side of the bed that Sam could see, and Patti further explained that TJ's G-tube was draining into a Foley bag on the other side of the bed where he couldn't see. He knew there would be a Foley bag to collect urine there, too, and he felt sorry for TJ, knowing how she was going to feel when she woke up—scared, in pain, humiliated, and pissed off—just like he had after his SCI and his shoulder injury. He wished to God there was some way he could spare her from it.

Patti finished recording TJ's vitals and pushed the computer cart away from the bed. "I'll let you have some time with her now, Sam. Not too long, though. Okay?"

Sam nodded and pushed himself up beside TJ's bed, careful not to bump any of the equipment. He turned his chair sideways so he could be flush up against her bed in order to reach her better. The bed was higher than his chair, but he could still reach her hand easily, and if he leaned forward, he was able to brush her soft, dark-brown hair away from her face. At least he still had long arms, even if he didn't have the advantage of height anymore.

He placed his palm gently on her cheek. Her skin was a little too warm, but not as hot as it had been when he'd touched it at the apartment. The telltale dots had faded around her eyes and were almost gone, but her girlish freckles were prominent against her pale skin. Now he knew why someone had coined the phrase "white as a sheet." It was an apt description.

He ran his thumb along her cheekbone and jawline. Whatever drug they had sedated her with had worked because she was out cold, and she didn't stir whenever he touched her hair or her face. Her only movement was the steady rise and fall of her chest in time with the hiss and click of the ventilator. It was scary that she was having trouble breathing, and he was disconcerted by the vent tubing and the tape securing it to her mouth. It looked no better on TJ than it had on Dean. He was used to seeing her mouth quirked in a wry smile or grinning or saying something to tease him—not covered up and unmoving.

He couldn't believe that this had happened to her, that it was so serious, that she had done it to herself. He wasn't judging or blaming her, though, and he was going to do his best to understand why and help her through it.

He knew how Gretchen felt, understood her guilt. If only he had made the doctor's appointment sooner and dragged TJ there, maybe this could have all been prevented.

TJ's hands were resting at her sides. He could see an IV in the back of her left hand along with a pulse ox clip on her finger. He took her right hand in his, gently squeezing, letting her know he was there. He could feel the bones in her fingers and was struck by how fragile they felt. She looked so vulnerable, so frail, like the bed might swallow her. He wanted to speak to her, but he was suddenly overwhelmed. He was afraid for her, and he felt his throat tighten and his eyes begin to sting.

He looked up at the ceiling, trying to regain control of his emotions. All he could think about was that, if he lost her, too, there was no way he could resist Azazel. If he lost TJ, he was done. To hell with the idea he'd come up with to fight the demon. To hell with everything. He had only known her for a short while, yet he felt like she'd always been there for him, and he couldn't imagine his life without her.

If he lost TJ, he was done fighting his fucking destiny. He would go off to lead Azazel's army of the damned, and Dean and Bobby would be better off without him. Dean could go back to hunting, go back to doing what he did best. Dean could hunt _Sam _and put an end to Sam's miserable life and put an end to Yellow Eyes once and for all.

Still holding TJ's hand, he leaned forward, again brushing his fingers through her long hair, which was loose and framing her face. In a thick voice, he said, "Hey, Teej. It's Sam. You'd better get well real quick, or I'm gonna get real pissy." He paused for a second, taking in a shaky breath. "You think I'm bad now? You have no idea."

He looked up at the ceiling again, feeling another surge of tears threatening to fall and forcing them back. "So I don't wanna hear any of that crap about the danger of you springing a leak or getting an infection. That's not an option. Tomorrow, you're gonna start breathing better on your own, and they're gonna take that vent out, and each day you're gonna get stronger. You hear me?"

He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, giving it a chaste kiss.

"Sam?" said a voice behind him.

He gently laid TJ's hand back down by her side and twisted to see Patti at the door.

"There's some things we need to check with TJ. I'm sorry."

He nodded, understanding that it was time for him to go. He turned to TJ and rubbed his thumb over her hand. "I'm not leaving you. Okay? I'm just gonna be in the waiting room, and I'll come back when they let me. I'll be back."

There was no response from TJ. Her eyes were so soundly closed they seemed almost sealed shut, and Sam wanted more than anything in that moment to see her long lashes flutter, for her eyes to open and light up with humor. It obviously wasn't going to happen right now, though, so he gave her hand one last squeeze and reluctantly left the room.

He wheeled back into the waiting room, feeling drained.

Everyone looked up when he entered, the question of how TJ was doing written on all their faces.

Gretchen was the first to put it into words. "How is she?"

Sam exhaled a deep breath and raised his good shoulder in a half-shrug. "She never woke up while I was in there. They gave her a pretty strong sedative because she started fighting the ventilator in recovery." He felt a knot in his chest and rubbed it with his hand, taking a breath. "She's hooked up to a lot of stuff. The nurse said she was doing well." He knew it wasn't a lot of information, but it was all he could offer.

Gretchen nodded. "How...how did she look?"

"Pale." He didn't want to tell her how fragile and weak TJ had really looked. It seemed a disservice to TJ.

Gretchen nodded and looked away from him, pulling her legs up into her chest again on the chair.

"I don't think—" Sam felt a lump in his throat and cleared it. "She's stable, but I don't think they're gonna let anyone in to see her, except maybe me in a little bit. TJ has no idea what's going on, and I don't think she's going to for a while, so I think it's okay if you guys want to leave. I know it's late and everyone has work tomorrow. TJ wouldn't want you guys sitting here twiddling your thumbs, worrying about her."

Gretchen gave a small, tired smile. "You think once we leave here, we'll stop worrying?"

Sam gave a halfhearted smile back. "No. But I think TJ would rather you worry about her in the comfort of your own home than here."

Gretchen sighed. "I've got a full day of patients again tomorrow, or I'd stay. You promise you'll call me if anything changes?"

"Yeah."

She stood up and grabbed her purse. "Anyone need a ride?"

Heather gave Dean an inquiring, hopeful look.

Sam watched them closely, curious to see how they interacted. He noticed that Heather's coppery hair was knotted in a loose bun and secured with a pencil in the back. It was one of those things girls with long hair did that had always sort of fascinated Sam. It reminded him of Jess, and he felt the usual pang of grief he always got when he thought of her, but he suddenly felt guilty for thinking of Jess when TJ was so deathly ill not too far away. It felt wrong. Why, he didn't know.

It wasn't like his relationship with TJ was the same as what he'd had with Jess. It was different, but he realized with a jolt that he felt just as strongly about TJ, and he found it disturbing. Was he having not-so-"brotherly" feelings for her? He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the headache in full force, trying to push the thought away. He didn't want to deal with that and the implications of it right now.

Dean gave Heather a look of apology. "Do you mind catching a ride with Gretchen? I'm staying here with Sam."

Sam felt a surge of annoyance. "You don't need to stay, Dean. I'll be okay. You and Bobby should both go."

Bobby's face remained neutral, but Dean looked adamant. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Dean, you have to work two jobs tomorrow."

"She's my friend, too, Sam," argued Dean. "I've known her longer than you."

It might be true, but Sam knew that wasn't the reason Dean wanted to stay. He wanted to keep an eye on Sam—because of the demon, because he thought Sam was helpless—and the same old anger Sam had felt over the last year caused his blood pressure to rise.

Sam was still furious that Dean and Bobby had gone behind his back and gotten the Colt without telling him, but then he reminded himself that he hadn't exactly been forthcoming, either. _I have demon blood in me. _The thought was sickening and cooled his ire a little, and he suddenly felt exhausted. He was so tired—tired of Dean acting like he couldn't take care of himself, tired from worrying about TJ, tired of not sleeping and thinking about the fucking demon. With a sigh, he said, "Fine. Whatever."

Dean raised his brows and looked at Bobby, as if surprised that Sam had given in so easily.

Bobby nodded in his usual stoic way. "Well, you don't have to twist my arm. I'm beat. I'll come back in the mornin', Sam. Call me if you want me to bring you anything."

"Okay. Thanks, Bobby. Change of clothes would be good."

Bobby nodded again and adjusted his cap. "Tell her I'm rootin' for her."

Sam knew that Bobby really liked TJ, and he was moved by Bobby's concern. "I will."

Heather turned reluctantly to Gretchen. "I guess I could use a ride, if you don't mind."

Gretchen shook her head. "No, not at all." To Sam, she said, "Call me if anything at all changes."

"I will."

Heather said to Dean, "I'll see you at Shorty's tomorrow."

"Yeah. We're gonna be shorthanded. I'll try to get someone to fill in for TJ, but be ready to shag ass."

She gave a coy smirk, her sky-blue eyes lingering on him. "I'll be ready."

Dean looked furtively at Sam and coughed into his fist.

Sam would have laughed at the absurdity of Dean acting uncomfortable around a girl if he hadn't been so annoyed with Dean and worried about TJ at the same time.

Heather and Gretchen headed toward the elevators, along with Bobby.

There were a couple of other families in the waiting area on the far side of the room, and a TV blared in one of the corners of the room, but Dean and Sam were left pretty much to themselves.

Sam arched over the backrest of his wheelchair, giving his back a stretch, and pushed down a little on the seat cushion with his hands to lift his butt and give it a minute of pressure relief.

Dean arched a brow. "You need to change positions? You wanna sit in a regular chair?"

Sam gritted his teeth. "Did I say I needed to change positions?"

Dean rolled his eyes, and they sat in silence for another little while.

Finally, Sam couldn't contain his irritation any longer. "Dude, this is ridiculous. I don't need you here to watch me sit in a hospital waiting room."

Dean snorted. "Not everything is about you, princess. That potted plant over there is more interesting to watch than you. I'm here for TJ."

"Right. Because you're such good friends."

"Sam, I've worked with her four or five days a week for over seven months. I know you two have gotten close, but I know her better than you think, maybe better than you in some ways."

"Yeah. Right."

Dean huffed and rubbed his fingers over his mouth. After a moment of tense silence, he said, "What happened today, Sam? You were with her earlier, right? Did she seem okay then?"

Sam winced, still feeling the dull throb of the headache. It wasn't bad enough to warrant taking one of his strong painkillers, but it was bad enough to be annoying. "No. I mean, I don't think this," he waved a hand, meaning everything with TJ, "had happened, but we got into an argument. She wanted me to take yoga lessons."

Dean snorted. "No fucking way."

Sam quirked his mouth wryly. "That was my reaction. She drove me to the studio and tried to talk me into going to a private session with some yoga instructor who's a para that Karen recommended. I refused, so TJ was already pissed off at me because of that. Then, I—" He stopped abruptly, feeling his throat tighten again. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and put his head in his hands. He felt like a complete dick for hurting TJ's feelings, even if he'd only been trying to help her. "She wouldn't listen to me, and I was getting desperate. I mean, she was so thin and always so tired."

"Yeah," said Dean, a bit of remorse in his voice. "Heather and I had noticed, too."

"I made her a doctor's appointment for tomorrow, which she, of course, refused to go to."

"No surprise there."

Sam continued. "I knew something was wrong. On top of everything else, she's been sort of...irritable, lately. Anyway, I shouldn't have said it, but it just sort of came out. I told her—I told her that she needed to see a doctor because she looked like shit."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Jeez, Sam. Real smooth. I'm sure that went over well, _especially_ coming from you."

Sam sat back up straight. "What do you mean, 'especially' coming from me?"

Dean just looked at him for a moment, as if there was something he wanted to say, but then he shook his head and looked away.

"What, Dean?"

Dean looked up at the ceiling in exasperation. "Ah, hell. She's gonna kill me for this."

"Dude, what the hell are you talking about?"

Dean exhaled. "Did you ever think TJ's feelings might go deeper for you than just friendship?"

Sam leaned back and balanced his chair on the back wheels, more than skeptical. "Oh, come on. You gotta be kiddin' me. We're just good friends. Why? Did she actually say something?"

"She didn't come right out and say it, but-"

"That's what I thought. We're just friends," Sam reiterated.

"You're so fuckin' clueless when it comes to girls, Sammy."

Sam came back down on all four wheels, angry, hands gripping the tires so tightly he felt the tread imprinting his hand and an ache in his bad shoulder. "Oh, yeah? What makes you such an expert, Dean? When's the last time you were with a girl?"

Dean's face colored, and his usually unnoticeable freckles stood out. He looked away from Sam, staring at the TV in the far corner.

"Answer me. Heather's obviously attracted to you, and you are to her, so why haven't you acted on it?"

Dean didn't answer, just kept staring at the TV.

"It's because I can't, isn't it?" Sam didn't realize he was raising his voice until one of the people across the room looked over at him.

Dean remained riveted to the TV.

"Look at me, Dean."

Dean finally looked in his direction, but not quite into his eyes.

"I'm the one in the fucking wheelchair, not you. This survivor's guilt or whatever you wanna call it doesn't do you or me any good. How do you think that makes me feel, knowing you're denying yourself because of me?"

"I'm not denying myself."

"Oh, so you've decided the life of a monk suits you? Thinking about taking up the cloth, maybe taking a vow of celibacy?"

Dean didn't respond.

"Jeez, that's so noble of you. How about you start using a wheelchair and get yourself a catheter while you're at it, too?"

Dean turned a darker shade of red. "Shut the fuck up, Sammy!"

"Why, Dean? Because it's crazy? Because it's stupid?" They were attracting the attention of the other people in the room again, and Sam lowered his voice, although he was still intense. "It's no more stupid than you not having sex, and no matter how much you resist temptation, at the end of the day, I'm still gonna be in this chair."

Dean's body was rigid, and his chin trembled almost imperceptibly. "Don't you think I know that? It's my damn fault, Sammy, and I relive it every fucking second of every fucking minute of every fucking day."

"What's your fault, Dean? That I got hurt? How could it possibly be your fault?"

"I shoulda had your back! It's always been my job to watch out for you, and I failed. I should've been behind you that day." He dipped his head into his hands, his posture the epitome of anguish and defeat. "How am I supposed to live with that?"

For a second, all the air seemed to leave Sam, and he felt a deep ache take its place. He knew the pain and guilt Dean felt because he'd felt it himself a thousand times—the what-ifs, the feeling of failure, the sense that he'd let down his dad and Dean.

He nudged his chair closer to Dean, and for the first time since his SCI, Sam willingly touched his brother, not because he needed to make a transfer or because he needed help in some other way, but because he wanted to. He squeezed Dean's shoulder, his voice low and full of compassion. "Dean, there's no way any of this was your fault. I should have been more careful. It's all on me, dude."

Dean regarded Sam with remorse in his eyes. "You were exposed. _I_ left you exposed. It doesn't matter how careful you were; you had no escape, no cover, nowhere to go."

"You didn't know the thing was gonna start throwing knives. Neither of us did. Still, if I'd just ducked or even moved just an inch or two in either direction, it would have at least missed my spine. We can torture ourselves with what we might have done differently for the rest of our lives, but maybe we should just...let it go. We can't go back in time and fix it, so maybe we should just move on."

They were both silent for a moment, mulling that over, and Sam felt as if a little of the heavy weight that had been smothering him for months began to lift. He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Maybe sometimes shit just happens. Maybe we're both stupid for blaming ourselves."

Dean snorted and looked away, surreptitiously wiping at his eyes.

"So, dude, cut out the abstinence. The whole born-again virgin thing doesn't fit you."

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath, not saying anything.

Sam sat back against the backrest of his chair, his tone persuasive. "God, Dean. You've never had a real relationship, never had the time to take things slow and get to know someone. You have that chance, now, with Heather. You've definitely got the slow part down. Don't you think it's time you took the next step and asked her to dinner or something?"

Dean looked sideways at Sam. "What about you? How do you feel about TJ?"

Sam could feel his chest compress, as if his heart was having its own reaction to her name. "We're talking about you, not me."

Dean persisted. "What if TJ does have feelings for you? How do you feel about her?"

"We're just friends."

"That wasn't my question."

"She doesn't have those kinds of feelings for me," said Sam, sounding more sure than he actually was. In the back of his mind was the memory of TJ's reaction to him wanting to go to lunch with Gretchen and her lashing out at him in the car, which was so uncharacteristic of her. Had she been jealous, even though she'd denied it?

"How do you feel about her, Sam?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Why?" Dean challenged.

Sam was saved from having to answer Dean—and himself—when Patti came into the waiting room.

"Sam," she said, "we don't usually do this, but Dr. Wahl has pulled some strings and found an empty bed for you to sleep in, if you'd like. It'll give you a chance to stretch out for a while. It's not far from TJ's room."

Sam swiveled and pushed his chair toward her. "Thanks. That'd be great."

He heard Dean exhale behind him and turned to look at him. "Go home, Dean."

Dean shot him a meaningful look. "You sure you'll be okay, Sammy?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm in a hospital, Dean, so, yeah."

The corners of Dean's mouth curved upward a little. "Bitch."

Sam held in a smile of his own. "Jerk."

Patti frowned, looking a little perplexed and disapproving of their exchange.

Sam cleared his throat and raised his brows, indicating to her that he was ready to follow.

She took the lead, and Sam wheeled behind her, not looking back at Dean. He wanted to tell his brother everything about Yellow Eyes, but Azazel's threat to kill both Dean and Bobby and the memory of how the demon had almost crushed Dean's insides and sliced him to ribbons at the cabin kept Sam quiet. It was just too dangerous.

_**TBC**_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Sam felt someone shaking his bad shoulder. His eyes popped open, and then he winced at the pain the shaking caused, absently noting bright sunlight filtering in through the blinds covering the large window of the room.

"Sam? I'm Irene, your sister TJ's day nurse. She's bucking the vent, and we want to see if you can help calm her down before we have to sedate her again."

Sam's heart started to race, and he took a second to try and figure out where he was and remembered that, after seeing TJ briefly one more time in the early hours of the morning, he had slept the rest of the night in an empty patient room. He threw the thin sheet that was covering him off and pushed on the mattress, rolling himself onto his back. His voice still thick with sleep, he said, "Okay. I just need—I need help getting into my chair."

Irene, an older, plump woman with short gray hair, frowned in confusion.

"My wheelchair. I'm—I have paraplegia." Sam looked around and experienced a second of panic when he saw his wheelchair wasn't beside the bed. He'd been so tired last night he hadn't paid attention to what the orderly that had helped him onto the bed had done with his chair. It was irritating. He would have thought an orderly in a hospital would know to leave it by the bed, but that wasn't the case.

He was still fully clothed, and he tugged on the denim of his jeans leg with his right hand to give himself some leverage, pulling himself up a little—ignoring the ache in his shoulder—and then placed his left hand behind him, followed by his right, and got himself to a sitting position. He could sit without support once he was up, but getting there was a little tricky, since he didn't have use of his lower abdominal muscles.

When he was sitting up, he saw with relief that his chair was parked in a corner of the room. "It's over there," he said, indicating with a jerk of his head.

Irene looked a little embarrassed. "Oh, yes. Of course. I'm sorry."

After Irene got the wheelchair, Sam patiently instructed her on how to help him transfer. She wanted to call an orderly, but Sam didn't want to waste the time waiting for one. Irene was a stout woman, and it was an easy transfer, and Sam managed to finally convince her that she could do it. The flustered nurse had informed him that she had just recently been reassigned to this unit, that she had been a neonatal nurse for most of her career.

Sam tried to stay calm, trying not to let the delay get to him as he followed the nurse to TJ's room, trying not to vent his frustration that TJ needed him and it had taken forever just to get him out of the damn bed. He needed to cath, too, but it would have to wait, and he hoped he wouldn't embarrass himself. Right now, though, the only thing that mattered was TJ.

As they got closer to her room, he could hear the vent alarm and the frantic beeping of the heart-rate monitor, and there were voices murmuring calming words to TJ. He picked up the pace, forgetting to push his chair the way Karen had instructed, just trying to get to TJ the fastest way possible.

It was all he could do to keep himself from shoving one of the nurses that was in his way, but she noticed him and quickly stepped away from TJ. He wheeled up next to TJ's bed as he had the night before.

She was in the same inclined position as before, almost sitting up, and she was making choking sounds, fighting the vent, wild terror in her eyes. A nurse on the other side of the bed held TJ's wrists down by her sides, and TJ kept flexing and clenching her fingers into fists. She moved her legs weakly and then grimaced.

Sam knew the struggle was causing her pain and was sure she didn't understand what was going on or what had happened to her. Why in the hell hadn't he set the alarm on his cell phone so that he'd wake up? He should have been there when she first opened her eyes. He covered her hand protectively with his, hating the vise-like grip the nurse had on her wrist.

Irene and the nurse that had been in his way, along with a woman wearing a white coat, stood by and watched, concern evident on their faces.

The woman with the coat, who was obviously a doctor, said, "See if you can calm her down. We hope to wean her off the vent today, but she needs to stay off the sedatives for us to do that. If she keeps panicking, we'll have to sedate her again."

With his other hand, he rubbed TJ's cheekbone soothingly with his thumb and said, "Hey, Teej. It's Sam. Everything's fine. You're safe. You just need to take it easy, okay?" He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

She focused her eyes on him, then, and gripped his hand with surprising strength.

His heart jumped a little, and he smiled. "Hey, kiddo. You're gonna be okay. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

She stared at him with relief in her eyes, and her heart rate began to slow on the monitor a little, but then she winced.

The vent gave off another alarm that her breathing was out of sync.

Sam understood how scary and painful it could be. "Don't fight the tube, TJ. It's pumping air into your lungs, so just let it do all the work. They're gonna be taking it out soon, so just try to relax for right now."

She scrunched her eyes shut.

He looked up at the nurse holding her wrists. "Let her go."

The nurse looked over at the doctor, who gave a nod that it was okay.

The nurse slowly released her grip, ready to grab TJ again if TJ started flailing.

TJ seemed to relax more, the features of her face smoothing out, and her breathing was more in rhythm with the vent.

The nurse gave Sam an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. She was really agitated, and we were afraid she might dislodge a tube."

Sam had nothing to say to that. He didn't like the red marks that had been left on TJ's thin wrists, but he knew that jerking a tube loose would have been worse. He rubbed the back of TJ's hand and soothed the red marks on her wrist with his thumb. With his other hand, he brushed his fingers through her hair. "Hey," he said softly.

She opened her eyes and looked at him, and then winced again and furrowed her brow.

"Are you hurting? One blink for yes, two for no."

She stared at him a moment longer, and then she slowly and deliberately blinked once.

Sam's gut clenched, and he looked over at the doctor. "Did you see that? Can you give her something for the pain?"

The doctor, a slight woman with square black glasses and black hair pulled back in a bun, walked over to the other side of the bed. "TJ, I just need to check a few things, and then we'll give you something to take the edge off, okay?"

TJ just looked at the doctor, large brown eyes full of distrust.

"She's a doctor, TJ," said Sam. "She's just going to make sure everything looks good, which it _does_," he insisted, although he had no way of knowing, "and then they'll give you some of the good stuff."

The doctor put a gentle hand on TJ's forearm. "I'm sorry, TJ. I should have introduced myself. I'm Dr. Udell. I'll be working with Dr. Wahl on your case."

TJ's eyes shifted to Sam, and she gave him a look that said, _What's she talking about?_

Sam kept steadily brushing her hair with his fingers. "I'll explain everything. Let her check you out first, though, okay?"

TJ closed her eyes and squeezed his hand.

"Go ahead," said Sam to the doctor.

"You've had surgery, TJ, and I'm just going to pull up your gown so I can see your dressings, okay?

TJ blinked in confusion.

"I'm assuming, since Sam's your brother, that you won't mind if he stays?"

Sam could feel heat spreading up his neck.

TJ's eyes flew open and widened.

Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, that's all right." He gave TJ a meaningful look that said, _Just go with it. _"I'll just step out of the room for a little bit, but I'll be right back. Okay?"

Her eyes locked with his for a moment, and then she gave his hand another squeeze, apparently the signal for "okay."

Sam could have sworn he saw a flash of humor in her eyes, and he smiled. "I'll be back in a minute, _sis."_

While Sam was waiting in the hallway, he got a call from Bobby, who was there with a change of clothes and a few other things he thought Sam might need. Sam met him in the waiting room and gave him a quick update on TJ's condition. Then, they got the okay for Sam to go back to the empty room he'd slept in and take care of his personal needs, and Bobby helped him change clothes. Sam was going to stay with TJ at least until her mom got there, so he told Bobby to go back to the apartment. There was really nothing else Bobby could do and no reason he should be stuck in the ICU waiting room all morning.

By the time Sam made it back to the hallway outside TJ's room, Dr. Udell was waiting outside TJ's door. When she saw him, she smiled politely. "Okay, Sam. Everything looks good so far. Her surgical incision looks good, and there's no significant leakage around the G-tube and J-tube. The drainage from the chest tubes has already gone down, so, hopefully, if it keeps tapering off, we can remove those in a couple of days.

"In the meantime, I think it's safe to have an RT—respiratory therapist—come up here and do a spontaneous breathing trial. TJ has been on the vent less than twenty-four hours, so, hopefully, it won't be difficult for her to transition to breathing on her own.

"I think her pain is from the incision and discomfort from the chest tubes, which is to be expected, along with soreness from fighting the vent. I've given her something for the pain, which should kick in soon."

Sam hated the thought of TJ in pain and wanted to get back to her.

"She seems pretty cognizant now, although the painkiller will probably make her drowsy again. It won't knock her out like the sedative did before, but it will help her rest."

Sam nodded.

"I explained to her what happened."

Sam nodded and then stared absently at the busy nurses' station, not really seeing it, thinking about the road ahead for TJ, what she would have to go through not only to heal from the surgery but how she would deal with the bulimia.

Dr. Udell looked sympathetic. "You can go back in, now. I don't see any reason to restrict your visitation. She seems a lot more at ease when you're in there with her."

"Thank you."

"Sure. Either I or Dr. Wahl will be in to check on her and see how the vent weaning goes later on."

With that, she left, and Sam went back into TJ's room.

TJ's eyes were closed, but she opened them halfway when he was next to her bed.

It felt natural for him to take her hand again. "Hey. Told you I'd be back. Do you feel any better? Is the painkiller kicking in?"

She held his gaze, but there was no blink to answer his questions, just an air of despondency that hadn't been there before.

He didn't like the change in her, and he wished Dr. Udell had let him handle explaining everything that had happened instead of TJ hearing it from a stranger.

She shifted her eyes away from him before slowly closing them. Except for her breathing, she was absolutely still.

He squeezed her hand. "I know how you feel, but everything's gonna be fine. I swear."

There was no return squeeze of his hand this time, and he was disturbed by her withdrawal from him.

He wanted desperately to somehow take away her sadness, but he didn't know what to say. He didn't even begin to know how to address the bulimia, and it seemed too new, too raw, to bring it up anyway.

Instead, he just sat there, rubbing the back of her hand, giving her comfort the only way he knew how—just by being there—and watched as an uneasy sleep reclaimed her.

**XXXXXXXX**

TJ slept fitfully for the rest of the morning after that, opening her eyes several times, but when she noticed Sam still sitting by her bedside holding her hand, her eyes darted away and closed again. He was worried that she seemed to be avoiding him—as much as a person in an ICU on a ventilator could avoid someone—and wondered if she was remembering what he said to her when they had argued.

He wanted to apologize to her, of course, but it didn't seem the right time to bring it up. She seemed fairly calm now, and he didn't want to say anything to upset her. Besides, she was only waking for a second or two each time, and then she would go back to sleep again.

It was after one in the afternoon, now, and Sam expected her mom to be getting there soon. Gretchen had texted him that she was picking up Ferna Sue around twelve-thirty, and they were going straight from the airport to the hospital.

Sam was trying to read a Time magazine he'd found in the waiting room, but he couldn't really concentrate on anything. He kept looking at TJ to see if she was awake, and, at the moment, he saw that she wasn't. She looked more tranquil than she had earlier, seemed to be sleeping more soundly, and he was heartened to see that her color looked a little better than it had last night.

He arched his back over the backrest of his chair, stretching and rotating his bad shoulder a little, which was getting stiff.

At that moment, Irene walked in—there was never any knocking in the ICU because the door was always open anyway—with the portable cart that contained a laptop and other equipment and started recording TJ's vitals, as she had been doing all morning.

Sam backed out of her way and watched. They didn't make him leave the room if there were no personal needs that needed to be attended to or dressings that needed to be checked.

As she worked, she spoke to Sam in a low voice, obviously trying not to wake TJ. "The respiratory therapist will be here soon to start the breathing trial. Hopefully, if all goes well, TJ can get rid of that vent."

"Good." He hoped getting rid of the vent and being able to talk would improve TJ's spirits.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement in the doorway.

He turned to see a small woman with big, poofy blond hair standing in the doorway wearing a light-pink sweater, matching cardigan, jeans, and brown sandals with a bit of a heel. She wasn't very tall, but she was an attractive older lady, probably in her late fifties.

She smiled with a little twinkle in her eye and said, "Sammy? Oh, _son_." Before Sam could react, she walked over, bent down, and gave him a hug, enveloping him in a cloud of subtle perfume. She was careful of his bad shoulder as if she knew to watch out for it and whispered in his ear in a more genteel version of TJ's accent, "I know you don't like to be called Sammy, but I figure that's what your mama would call you if she were alive."

He smiled nervously, patting her back. Obviously, this was TJ's mom, and Gretchen had been right. She already knew a lot about him. "Uh, hi," he said lamely.

She withdrew from him but kept her hands lightly on his shoulders, looking him over with shrewd green eyes.

It made him a little uncomfortable, but surely, if she knew so much about him, she had known he used a wheelchair.

With that same sort of mischievous twinkle in her eye, she said, "My, my, but you get more handsome every time I see you."

He hadn't expected her to say _that_, and he wasn't sure what to say. "Uh, thanks," he replied.

Irene was watching their whole exchange intently.

He cleared his throat and said, "Uh, you look great, too." He almost added "Mom," but couldn't quite bring himself to call her that, despite his years of conning people as a hunter. This was TJ's mom, and it was a strange way to be introduced to someone, especially the parent of a friend.

"Gretchen had to go back to work, but she's gonna try to get up and see TJ later today, if they'll let her."

Sam nodded.

She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, giving him a wink and a smile, and then focused her attention on Irene and TJ, suddenly serious. She walked over to the bed and took TJ's hand, eyes glued to her daughter's face. Without looking at Irene, she said to the nurse in a hushed tone, "I'm Ferna Sue Nelek, TJ's mother."

Sam saw TJ's brow furrow a little at the sound of her mother's voice, but she didn't wake.

"Hi, Mrs. Nelek," the nurse replied, matching Ferna Sue's quiet tone. "I'm Irene, TJ's primary day nurse."

"Hello, Irene. Call me Ferna Sue or just Fern." She took in a deep breath, as if steeling herself, and finally looked at Irene. "How's she doin'?"

Irene gave her a rundown of TJ's condition and prognosis and explained the tubes and machinery, as Patti had done for Sam.

Fern took it all in stoically, occasionally asking questions, never letting go of TJ's hand, never showing that she was upset, except for an almost imperceptible crease in her brow.

When the nurse was done, Fern leaned closer to TJ, a tender look on her face, and carded her fingers through TJ's hair. "Hey, sugar. Mama's here." Her voice was soothing and smooth, almost like a lullaby.

TJ's eyes fluttered open, and she stared at her mom for a moment, blinking her long lashes, as if trying to focus. Then she closed them slowly, brow furrowed in a mixture of anguish and relief, and began to cry silently, large tears rolling down her cheeks.

Sam had never seen TJ like that, and it stole his breath, as if an arrow had pierced his chest. He wanted to comfort her, but it wasn't his place, not now.

Unconditional love and heartbreak spread across Fern's features, the type of expression a mother would have seeing her child in pain. "Shh. It's all right, baby doll," she said, wiping the tears from TJ's cheeks and stroking her hair. "Everything's gonna be just fine."

**XXXXXXXX**

Three days later, Sam was heading to TJ's room, and he could hear a commotion coming from it long before he actually got there.

Vernon, TJ's dad, was standing just outside the open door. When he saw Sam, he gave him a dry look. "Well, she's awake," he drawled in his thick Kentucky accent.

It was the understatement of the year, since TJ's hoarse, yet loud, cursing could be heard all over the ICU. "You tell this bitch, Mama!" she was yelling, her accent as pronounced as her dad's, a sign that she was royally pissed off. "You tell her to get...these...fuckin'...things...out of me!"

Sam could hear Fern and another female voice, probably a nurse, murmuring to TJ, trying to calm her down.

"No! Stop touching me!"

Vernon, who usually had a wry sense of humor and never seemed to take anything too seriously, grew earnest and gave Sam a look that was filled with worry. "She woke up real agitated early this mornin'. The doc thinks it's because of the pleural chest tube, says they can sometimes cause patients to get antsy. TJ's been coughin' a little this mornin', too, which I'm sure don't make all them stitches she's got—inside and out—feel too good."

Sam frowned. "Coughing? Did the doctor say why?"

"She said when a lot of fluid's been drained, it can sometimes cause it. I think they're probably gonna take them tubes out soon, but we've got to wait for the respiratory therapist to come around and give the okay." Vernon, who had bright-blue eyes, gray hair cropped military style, and leathery skin from spending years outdoors farming, rubbed a hand over his face and sniffed. "To top it all off, that damn G-tube she's got in her stomach for drainage is leakin' stomach juice, and it's caused her skin to get real irritated around the hole where the tube sticks out."

Sam cringed, hating what TJ was going through, and he exhaled to release some of his tension. He wanted to see her, to comfort her, but she hadn't exactly been receptive since that morning when she'd first woken up after her surgery. She'd been quiet most of the time, hardly talking to anyone, but then she'd have bouts like this morning where she'd be angry and belligerent, and none of them had escaped her sharp tongue unscathed. "Have they given her anything for the pain?"

Vernon nodded. "Yeah. But—"

"Dammit, I said stop touchin' me, you bitch!" croaked TJ. "Just leave me the fuck alone!"

"—as you might be able to tell, it don't seem to be havin' much effect so far." Vernon poked his cheek with his tongue and quirked his mouth like Sam had seen TJ do a million times.

Sam found it hard to believe that Vernon wasn't her biological father because she was so much like him. They didn't look much alike, which wasn't surprising, but their mannerisms and their way of talking were amazingly similar.

TJ had obviously gotten her sarcasm from her father, along with her tendency to say things that were sometimes insensitive or inappropriate. Vernon had a swagger and confidence that was surprisingly likable, despite the fact that he sometimes said outlandish things that no one else could get away with, and it was obvious he didn't care who he shocked or offended. He wasn't mean; he just said what he thought, and, with Vernon, you always knew where you stood.

Sam eyed the door to TJ's room warily. "Is it okay—I mean, should I go in there?"

Vernon raised his brows. "Well, my advice would be to enter at your own risk. You might wanna trade that wheelchair for the Popemobile, though. You'll need all the protection you can git."

Sam grinned. "I think I'll be okay as long as she doesn't get her hands on any projectiles."

Vernon wheezed out a laugh, clapped Sam on his good shoulder, and called into the room, "Ferna Sue, our _son_ is here. Can us men of the family come in?" Vernon had one of those rich voices that carried, and even when he wasn't trying to be loud, he could always be heard a mile away.

There were murmurs in the room. Then, the cursing stopped, and TJ was quiet.

TJ's parents had thought it was great fun pretending that Sam was their son and cracked little inside jokes about it all the time around the hospital staff, but, on the more serious side of things, they had also been grateful that Sam had been there for TJ when they couldn't be.

TJ's mom, especially, had been really nice to him, and they'd had quite a few talks before Vernon had arrived, during the down times when TJ had been asleep. Fern had told Sam that she and TJ were close, that they spoke on the phone almost every day; and knowing that, it made more sense that Fern knew so much about him. It actually made him feel kind of good to know TJ had talked to her mom about him, kind of made him want to smile.

Fern, in her much softer, genteel voice, called, "Just a minute, boys."

After another moment, Irene came out looking more than a little rattled and just shook her head at Vernon and Sam in frustration.

"All right. Y'all can come in," called Fern.

Sam followed Vernon into the room.

Fern was sitting in a chair to TJ's left, on the side of the bed not visible from the door, where the Foley bags and the feeding pump were, and Sam knew it was because TJ didn't want him to see everything.

He pushed himself toward her bed on the other side but didn't get as close as he had that first day. Lately, his presence seemed to make TJ a little uneasy, so he sat back a bit from her bed and said, "Hey."

Vernon piped up. "Hay is for horses."

TJ rolled her eyes in derision, even though she'd said the same thing to Sam a hundred times. "Oh, God," she muttered.

"You better finish that prayer, girl," Vernon admonished, but there was no heat behind it. His response had been automatic, like they'd had that exchange many times.

Fern gave Sam a slightly rueful look. "We _try_ not to take the Lord's name in vain," she explained.

TJ was silent, picking at a thread on the thin, beige blanket that covered her up to her waist, not looking at anyone, especially not Sam. She had a plastic oxygen cannula in her nose, and her hair looked a little oily since it hadn't been washed in a few days—which was one of the many things that sucked about being in the hospital that Sam remembered—but it was in a ponytail, and Sam found it a relief to see her looking a bit more like herself, although she was still gaunt and weak. However, she had been on the nutritional formula for a couple of days, and her coloring was starting to look a lot better.

There was an awkward silence in the room, which was unusual when Vernon was around, but he seemed to be distracted, watching TJ intently.

Fern stood up and said, "Come on, Vern. I missed breakfast this mornin'. Let's go to that Cracker Barrel down the street and get some brunch. I'm tired of the hospital cafeteria."

Vernon looked like he was about to protest, but Fern gave him a hard stare full of meaning and inclined her poofy-haired head toward Sam and TJ. She was a small woman, couldn't have been much over five-foot-two, but she had a presence about her that was all quiet strength and authority, probably from years as a high school science teacher.

Vernon looked a little chastened and said, "Sure. I done had me some cereal at the apartment, but I wouldn't mind gettin' somethin' that'll stick to my ribs."

Fern raised a brow at him. "'Done had me some cereal'? Vernon Nelek, where'd you learn to speak English, Louisville?"

He narrowed his eyes. "You better watch it, woman."

She just smirked.

Vernon had gone to the University of Louisville, and Ferna Sue had gone to the University of Kentucky. As Vernon had proudly told Sam, the rivalry had kept a spark in their marriage for thirty years.

Fern kissed TJ's forehead in a motherly way. "You gonna be okay, sugar, if Daddy and I go grab a bite? Sam'll be here with you."

TJ nodded and looked like she was about to speak, but she coughed instead and grimaced, laying her head back on her pillow.

Fern frowned. "That painkiller still hadn't kicked in yet, hon?"

"I'm fine, Mom," TJ said weakly. "Y'all just go."

Fern looked like she was having second thoughts.

Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, I'll call you if she needs you, Mrs. Nelek. You guys won't be that far away."

Vernon clapped Sam good-naturedly on the shoulder again—the good one. He was always aware of Sam's sore shoulder, although he and Sam had never talked about it, probably because either TJ or Fern had warned him about it.

Sam always tensed and grabbed his wheels when Vernon slapped his shoulder, though, not because it hurt, but because it always made him feel a little off balance. He never said anything, not wanting to point out his weaknesses to Vernon; he just hoped Vernon never got too overzealous one of these days and caused him to fall out of his chair.

"Son, first of all, if them nurses hear you call her Mrs. Nelek, we'll all be in the doghouse for lyin'. Second, you're gonna have to start sayin' _y'all _if you're gonna be a part of this family," he said boisterously.

Sam looked up at him and gave a polite smile. "Uh, yeah. I guess so."

Fern squeezed TJ's hand and then grabbed her purse that was on the overbed table. "All right, sugar doll. You sure you'll be all right?"

TJ nodded tiredly.

Fern frowned and gave Sam a look that said she was counting on him to take care of her daughter. "We'll be back after while."

Sam gave her a quick nod of reassurance, and they headed out the door.

TJ watched them go and then closed her eyes.

It seemed eerily quiet in the room without Ferna Sue and Vernon there, even with the usual noises of the ICU all around them.

Sam cleared his throat, feeling awkward. He hadn't had a moment alone with TJ since her mom had gotten there. Fern had refused to leave TJ's side, but Sam figured since TJ seemed stronger today, despite her earlier agitation, Fern had deemed it okay if she left her daughter for a little bit. He knew she'd done it to give Sam and TJ some time together.

He hadn't had a chance to apologize to TJ for what he'd said when they'd argued, but he didn't know how to bring it up, so he made small talk instead. "So, uh, Dean and Heather said to say hi and that they'd come for a visit once you're out of the ICU."

At first it seemed like she wasn't going to acknowledge what he'd said, but then she opened her eyes, not meeting his, and seemed to stare at nothing. "I don't want them to come visit me," she said in a flat tone.

"Oh, come on, TJ. They're all wanting to see you—Bobby and Gretchen, too. I know you don't feel like it now, but you'll want to see them when you're better and you're not hooked up to all this stuff." After a couple of seconds of silence, he added quietly, "Gretchen said you refused to see her."

She looked back at him then, her eyes flashing with anger. "Did _you_ feel like having visitors?"

He was quiet for a moment, and then he wheeled his chair up close to her bed, tired of not being near enough to her. "No. I didn't want visitors, but my situation was a lot different—in a lot of ways."

She closed her eyes and turned her head away from him, her hand clutching tightly at the blanket covering her.

He cleared his throat. "Do you not want me to visit, either?"

She didn't answer.

He reached over and took her hand, uncurling her fist and lacing his fingers together with hers.

She stiffened and winced.

He almost let go of her, not wanting to make her uncomfortable, but, in the end, he held on. Her skin was soft and a little cool, and he wanted to warm it up. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckle in a calming manner and spoke in a low tone. "TJ, I'm sorry for what I said, and I don't blame you for not wanting to talk to me."

**XXXXXXXX**

TJ opened her eyes and rolled her head on the pillow to look at him, knowing exactly what he was talking about and hating the guilty look she saw on his face. The oxygen they had her on made her throat, which was already sore from the ventilator, feel dry, and since she couldn't eat or drink anything—not even ice—her mouth felt like she'd been eating chalk. She didn't feel like talking—hadn't felt like talking to anyone for other reasons besides just the physical—but she couldn't let that go. "Don't apologize for that." Her voice sounded raspy, and she knew yelling at Irene earlier hadn't helped. "I know why you said it."

Sam looked down, pausing for a second, and then looked back up at her. "I didn't mean to hurt you. What I said—I didn't mean to imply—"

"You didn't mean to imply that somebody beat me at birth with the ugly stick?" She was teasing him.

He rolled his eyes. "No. I just meant—"

"I know what you meant, Sam," she interrupted. "Just forget it. Please."

He furrowed his brow, giving her the puppy-dog look. "I want you to know that I think you're beautiful, TJ."

She felt warm fuzzies all over, realizing for the first time what "warm fuzzies" really meant, and looked down, hiding the tears brimming in her eyes, loving him more in that moment than she ever had. "On the inside, right?" she joked hoarsely.

"In every single way," he said with complete sincerity.

She composed herself and forced out a smile. "Thank you, Christina Aguilera."

He grinned, giving her a flash of white teeth and dimples. "Are you ever serious? We're having a moment here."

"If I ever were serious, I'd probably commit suicide."

His face fell, and he looked stricken.

"Good Lord, Sam. I'm just kidding." Then she realized that was damn near what she'd actually done, almost killing herself, and the gut-wrenching shame that she'd been trying to fight off since she'd been told what had happened rushed into her full force, making her feel worse than she already did. She couldn't meet his eyes. "Okay. So I really did a number on myself, almost barfing myself to death, but it wasn't intentional. I'm crazy, but I'm not _that_ crazy. I'm not suicidal."

"I shouldn't have said what I said. I should have gone about things differently." He looked at their hands and gently let go so he could draw imaginary circles on her palm with his finger.

It made the butterfly wings in her stomach start to flutter.

"Maybe if I hadn't said that. Maybe if we'd gone to the doctor—"

"Sam Winchester, are you blaming yourself for what happened?" Her voice had gone up an octave, and it came out almost as a squeak.

He was silent, but he looked at her with apology in his eyes.

She grabbed his hand and clasped it firmly, soothed by the warmth of it. "Sam, this was _not_ your fault."

He frowned and looked down.

She used her grip on his hand to pull herself, shifting positions a little bit in her bed so she could lay more on her right side, facing him, trying to ignore how shaky and weak she was and how much just that little movement had hurt, how all the fucking tubes sticking out of her had protested. Painfully, she swallowed what little saliva she could muster in her mouth and croaked, "You wanna know what really happened?"

He slowly lifted his head again.

"I was hungry. No, that's not true. I was fucking _starving. _The argument we had, it was a relief. It gave me a reason to seek food, a justification to comfort myself. If it hadn't been the argument with you, something else would have triggered it. Believe me. Like I said, in the back of my mind, I knew what you meant to say. You're too nice of a guy to say something intentionally hurtful to me—or anybody, for that matter."

He huffed and looked a little remorseful. "I'm no saint, TJ."

"Okay. So maybe you're a dick to Dean—"

He raised his brows.

"—but he's your brother. Siblings treat each other like shit sometimes. It's a law of the universe, and it's been that way since Cain and Abel. I think you do it because you know that Dean will forgive you when no one else would."

"Let's save the psychoanalysis of me for later," he said dryly.

"Okay. Just promise me you won't blame yourself for this, and while you're at it, tell Gretchen the same thing."

His eyes widened.

"I know she tried to call me a bunch after we saw her, and I know why. Tell her I would have kicked her ass if she'd called my mom behind my back."

He gave her a dimpled smile. "You're amazing, you know that?"

She looked down, unable to meet his eyes, wondering why he was even there after knowing what she'd done. She didn't feel amazing at all. She felt like a pathetic moron for what she'd done to herself, and she felt even worse that everyone knew about it, that now she was labeled a bulimic again.

She knew they all felt sorry for her—which she abhorred—and she also knew they wouldn't know how to talk to her, that there would be all these awkward moments she'd have to face with everyone, that there would be a stigma attached to her, just like before. She'd have to go through therapy with a psychologist—maybe even have to do group therapy at some place with an inane name like Whispering Hills. She'd have a nutritionist and a doctor monitoring her weight gain, and the whole time she'd want to tell them all to fuck off. She was angry and profoundly ashamed and afraid—afraid that she would never beat it, that the bulimia would control her life forever.

She felt crushed by an avalanche of despair, and her chest and throat both tightened, which made her cough, which hurt her surgical incision and the fucking tubes sticking out of her chest and made the skin itch and burn around the G-tube, which reminded her again of just how horribly she'd screwed up this time, and she felt hot tears scalding her eyes. She scrunched her eyes closed, trying to keep them inside, but a couple escaped anyway and slid down her cheeks.

Sam's voice was soothing. "Hey, hey. Easy, TJ. Breathe in through your nose. Let the oxygen help you. That's what it's there for."

Her chest tightened even more, and she could hear the annoying beep of the heart-rate monitor start to quicken and felt her heart begin to hammer, perfectly in sync with it. A sharp pain from the area of her incision in her upper abdomen shot through her. She tried to hold in another cough, but it was a mistake to try to suppress it. The cough, when it burst forth from her throat, was ten times more violent than it should have been and jarred her body, making everything hurt even worse than she'd thought possible.

Sam's voice was calm and authoritative. "TJ, listen to me. Take a deep breath through your nose."

She shook her head, her eyes still clenched shut. "It'll hurt," she gasped. She felt his fingers move minutely and realized that she had a death grip on his hand, but she couldn't make herself let go.

"Just try one deep breath, just one."

Reluctantly, she did what he said, drawing in as much breath as she could through her nose, and it was easier than she thought it would be.

"That's it. Concentrate on breathing. Just breathe through it."

She took in a few more breaths, hitching a few times on a stab of pain, but, finally, it started to subside, and the panicky, achy feeling in her chest began to ease. She lay there for a moment, eyes still closed, feeling exhausted. "I hate this," she muttered hoarsely.

"I know, but it'll get better."

She didn't really believe him and felt the burning of tears again, but she was too tired to cry.

As if reading her mind, he said, "You're strong, TJ. You'll get through this." Then he tenderly kissed the back of her hand.

The feel of his lips on her skin was way better than any painkiller, and she soon drifted off to sleep, wondering what she'd done to deserve a friend like Sam.

**XXXXXXXX**

As Sam wheeled his way down the hallway to the regular room TJ had occupied for a week, now, he saw her and her parents walking slowly, their backs to him. She was supposed to take walks around the hospital regularly in order to get exercise and build strength, and, although she was still weak and sore, she was getting stronger.

She was walking between her parents and was taller than both of them, even her dad, who was about an inch or two shorter than she was. It was sort of endearing to Sam, but it hit him with sudden clarity that, for TJ, it might have just added to her feelings of being an Amazon—which she wasn't. Growing up with a tiny mother like Fern and then surpassing her father in height, for a girl, might not have been such a great thing. For Sam, his height had been a thing of pride—well, to everyone except Dean—but he could see how being such a tall girl may have been hard on TJ.

It had been two weeks since her surgery, and, physically, she was doing well. The rupture was healing as it should be, and there had been no leakage or additional infections.

They had removed all the tubes, and she was now on a soft diet. She ate six small meals a day, and there was always a nutritionist or nurse there to make sure she ate enough, tracking her calories and nutrient intake. TJ had experienced some problems with swallowing, which the doctors had assured everyone was normal, so most of her food had to be pureed.

Sam knew she hadn't been too thrilled about that—not to mention the fact that she hated to be watched like a hawk when she was eating—but she was keeping it down and had gained a little weight. She had a long way to go, though, since she'd been around thirty pounds underweight.

Sam saw TJ and her parents reach the end of the hall and turn around. He had reached her door and sat there, waiting for them. Fern and Vernon gave him smiles of welcome, but TJ's face was an unreadable mask.

Emotionally, TJ hadn't fared so well. She wasn't opening up to the psychologist like the doctor wanted her to, and she had been quiet and withdrawn from them all—Sam, her parents, Gretchen, Dean, Heather—either sleeping or, more recently, doing schoolwork on her laptop. Her professors had been accommodating of her situation and had made it where TJ could download a lot of her assignments from the Internet. She had friends in all her classes, and there was someone willing to share their notes with her in each one, so she hadn't really gotten that far behind. Hopefully, she would be able to pick up where she left off once she was out of the hospital.

Unfortunately, she had just been told earlier that morning that she would have to stay in the hospital another week. Her doctor, psychologist, and nutritionist all wanted her to gain another five pounds before they let her go home.

Her mother had called Sam earlier with the news, and Fern hadn't needed to tell him that it had been a huge disappointment to TJ. She was already depressed, and Fern was worried that the news would send TJ spiraling down to an even darker place.

Although Sam spent a lot of time with TJ every day, Fern had called him to see if he could come earlier than usual this morning. He had blown off another one of his home therapy sessions for his shoulder because TJ was more important. Besides, his shoulder was still getting better, despite the fact that he hadn't been doing his therapy like he should have been, and he figured wheeling himself in his manual chair the way Karen had shown him had helped to strengthen it.

When TJ was close enough, Sam smiled and said, "Hey."

TJ was wearing a thin, silk robe and matching blue silk pajamas her mom had gotten her, and her dark, auburn-chestnut hair was down. It was shiny and looked healthier. Her eyes, however, held the hollow, sad look that Sam had seen too much of lately. "Hey," she said flatly. "Aren't you earlier than usual?"

It was almost like an accusation, and Sam was a little disappointed that she didn't seem happier to see him.

Fern said, "I called him, honey. I thought you could use a friend this mornin'."

TJ's features remained impassive. "I have to study. I have a bunch of assignments I need to work on." With that, she gingerly shuffled back into her room, leaving the three of them in the hallway.

There was a tick in Vernon's jaw. "She ain't too chipper today."

Vernon had to leave tomorrow to get back to his farm, and it didn't take a genius to figure out he was worried and felt guilty about having to leave TJ.

"Did you bring 'em?" Fern asked Sam.

Sam leaned back and patted the backpack on the back of his chair. "Right here."

Fern looked satisfied. "Good. Let's go, then."

They all made their way into TJ's room.

She had the head of her bed upright in a sitting position, covers pulled back and fuzzy white slippers still on her feet, although she'd taken off her robe. She was booting up her laptop, a textbook spread out along with it on the overbed table.

Vernon nonchalantly picked up the textbook and put it back in her gray backpack that was on the floor next to her bed.

TJ's eyes flashed with anger. "Daddy, what are you doin'?"

"Sam brought you somethin' special. You can study later."

TJ shot a look at Sam as if he'd somehow betrayed her.

Fern came over and put her arm around TJ's shoulders, giving her a hug that was meant to be pacifying. "Show her what you brought, Sam."

Sam was a little wary that maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all, judging by the stubborn, disgruntled look on TJ's face, but he did as her mom asked and pulled out four DVD cases from his backpack.

TJ's chin jutted out, and her tone was annoyed. "So, what are they?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, it's some John Hughes movies."

TJ looked at him a moment, face unreadable, but then she finally said with guarded interest, "Which ones?"

Huge grins spread across both Fern and Vernon's faces, as if the battle had already been won, but they were standing sort of behind TJ, so she didn't see.

Sam, however, wasn't quite convinced but hoped that they were right. "It's, uh, _Ferris Bueller's Day Off, The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, _and _Pretty in Pink._"

TJ just stared at him.

"Your mom told me a while ago that they were your favorites, so I thought they might cheer you up. I was hoping you would watch one or two with me."

There wasn't exactly humor in her eyes, but there was a spark of something, and she poked the inside of her cheek with her tongue, making that funny quirk of her mouth. "Those aren't exactly the caliber of _Wings of Desire._"

"They're not _My Life as a Molecule, _either_."_

She gave him a wan smile, but then her eyes got teary and her chin started trembling, and she turned her face into her mom.

Sam felt a jab to his heart.

Fern tightened her hug around TJ's shoulders and gave Sam a bittersweet smile over TJ's head. "Shh. It's okay, sugar," she soothed. After a moment, she loosened her embrace and patted TJ's back. "Why don't you scoot over a little and let Sam get up here with you?" She raised questioning brows at Sam. "That all right with you, hon?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

Vernon arched a brow of fatherly disapproval at the idea of Sam being in bed with his daughter but didn't say anything.

Sam suspected the disapproval was mainly for show, and he had the bitter thought that there was certainly nothing to worry about with him.

TJ took a deep breath and seemed to compose herself, looking back at Sam. "You're not supposed to transfer without a board."

Sam pushed himself over close to her bed and reached up and set the DVDs on the overbed table next to TJ's laptop. "It's okay. Your dad can help me if he doesn't mind. I just need you to lower your bed a little so it's more even with my chair."

She looked worried. "Sam, I don't think—"

"TJ, it's okay. Trust me, I'm not gonna do anything that's gonna mess up my shoulder."

Vernon stepped over near Sam, and TJ lowered her bed as much as possible, still not looking convinced that Sam should be making the transfer.

Sam hooked an arm around Vernon's neck just like he'd done a hundred times with Dean and Bobby, working with Vernon to bear most of his weight. While it had strained Sam's bad shoulder just a bit when he'd pushed off the frame of his chair with his right hand, it was nothing to worry about, and it was good to realize that he was getting stronger, that he wasn't so helpless anymore.

Once he was sitting on the side of the bed, he pulled his legs up, and then Vernon helped him scoot into a comfortable position next to TJ. Sam could feel the tension in TJ and gave her right hand a squeeze with his left, looking to make sure she had enough room and was comfortable. It was a tight space, but she seemed to be okay.

Fern popped open the DVD drive of TJ's laptop and said, "Which one y'all wanna watch first?"

TJ didn't answer and seemed almost in a daze.

Sam gave her a gentle nudge. "Lady's choice."

She thought for a moment and then said quietly, "_The Breakfast Club."_

Sam hated it that she was still so forlorn and put his left arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him. There was really nothing she could do but lay her head on his shoulder. He could sense tension in her neck, and he reached up with his hand and started massaging it.

She let out a small sigh and seemed to relax a little.

He could smell the flower-and-mint scent of her hair and felt a tightening in his belly in a pleasant way.

Fern gave him a wink of approval and took the DVD out of its case, putting it into the laptop. While it was loading, she said to Sam, "May I help you with your shoes, hon?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure." Sam wanted to protest that he could do it himself, but TJ seemed content nestled half on his shoulder, half on his chest, and he was afraid to disturb her, afraid it might make her withdraw again. He felt a little self-conscious at first letting Fern take his shoes off, but she was so matter-of-fact and motherly about it that it put him at ease.

She placed them in the seat of his chair, as if remembering that he would need easy access to them when he got ready to put them back on. She always seemed aware of the little things, and Sam wondered how much of that was due to TJ. Whatever the reason, he appreciated it.

Fern clicked play and the previews at the beginning of the movie started. She looked like she was about to say something when there was a knock at the door.

Sam felt TJ stiffen again, despite the fact that he was still rubbing her neck.

A voice from the other side of the door called, "It's Carla."

Dismay crossed Fern's features, but she said, "Come on in, Carla," and clicked the pause button on the movie.

The nurse, a woman in her mid thirties with long blond hair held up in some kind of a clip, opened the door and eyed Sam with surprise.

"Sam's going to watch a movie with TJ," explained Fern.

Carla nodded and looked at TJ tentatively, as if trying to gauge what kind of mood TJ was in. "Hey, sweetie. It's time for your mid-morning snack." She was holding a large plastic cup with a lid and a straw sticking out of the top. "We thought you might want to try a straw today. It's a chocolate shake."

Until today, TJ hadn't been allowed to eat or use anything, including straws, that might cause excess air to accumulate in her esophagus or stomach, so Sam guessed she was making progress if they were offering her a straw.

TJ rolled carefully onto her back, her head still resting on Sam's shoulder. The nurse handed her the shake, and she took a sip. She made a sour face and said, "This isn't a real milkshake. It's that Ensure crap."

The nurse smiled nervously. "I know, sweetie, but we've got to get some nutrients in you, too. We can't just give you junk."

TJ didn't say anything, just leaned forward, grimacing a little at the pain the movement caused in her still-sore abdomen, and set the shake on the overbed table defiantly.

Carla sighed, obviously having been through something similar before with TJ and trying to maintain her patience. "TJ, you know I can't leave until you drink most of that."

TJ's expression was mutinous. "I guess you're gonna be here for a while."

"TJ," Fern said with a mild warning, "just drink it, honey. The sooner you get it down, the sooner you can watch the movie."

TJ didn't respond to her mother and just stared at Carla.

Vernon stepped over to Carla and put a proprietary hand on her back, steering her toward the door. "Carla, I tell you what. We'll make sure she drinks ever' drop."

"But I have to record her intake."

"Well, can't you do that by just looking at whatever's left in the cup when you come back later?"

"Well, yeah, but..." she left it unspoken that someone was supposed to make sure that TJ actually drank it, that TJ didn't pull a trick like pouring it in the toilet or down the sink in the bathroom.

Sam looked down at TJ. His arm was still around her shoulders, and he could feel her grow even more rigid. Her jaw was locked tight, and her anger and embarrassment were almost palpable.

Sam said to the nurse with intensity, "It's okay," and gave her a pointed look that said following the rules wasn't always the best course of action.

"Well—"

"Atta girl, Carla," said Vernon, herding her to the door and out into the hall, his voice booming even though he could no longer be seen. "Let's give them kids some quality time together. They ain't had much alone time lately, and you know how us country folk are. Sam and TJ have always been _real_ close siblings."

Fern rolled her eyes and placed a hand on her cheek, shaking her head. "Lord, have mercy. That man'll say anything."

Sam grinned and looked down at TJ, but he faltered at the look on her face.

If she had heard anything that had been said, she was not amused. Instead, she was just staring at the milkshake, her expression stony and unyielding.

_**TBC**_


	13. Chapter 13

_**A/N: **__**I hate doing this because I don't want to give away anything, but there is a pretty honest, graphic sex scene toward the end of this chapter, so I'M GIVING THIS CHAPTER AN M RATING. If it makes you uncomfortable, don't worry. I'm going to use a horizontal line to denote when the really steamy parts begin and end, so if you don't want to read it, DON'T read between the lines. :) If you feel like you've missed part of the story, just send me a PM, and I will give you a more G-rated summary of what happened. Enjoy!**_

**Chapter 13**

TJ watched her parents leave, her mother quietly shutting the door behind her. They had said they were going shopping, which was a thinly veiled excuse to give TJ and Sam some time alone to watch the movie. They had taken to Sam as if he actually was their son, even her dad, and TJ wasn't surprised. Who wouldn't like Sam? But TJ wasn't sure if she was grateful or wary.

She hadn't missed the tacit agreement between Sam and her mom, both of them eyeing the milkshake and Sam surreptitiously nodding that he'd take care of it. Did they think she was blind? Did they think that she was too dumb to figure out that they would make her drink the stupid shake one way or another?

She closed her eyes, so very tired. She was so tired of being angry all the time, so tired of being the freak, so tired of being treated like some kind of prisoner. The doctors weren't letting her go home because she wasn't giving them what they wanted—tears of remorse and opening up about how much she hated herself for all the world to see. She wanted to tell them all to fuck off—well, she actually had at one point or another—and they were punishing her for that, making her stay for at least another week, practically force-feeding her.

It wasn't even really that she didn't want to eat. In a way, it was like she was resigned to it, like she'd been caught, and now she had to face the music, had to gain weight. It was being treated like a mental case that made her defiant, that made her not want to drink the fucking shake just because they were watching her, just because she was not to be trusted. No matter how much she protested that she knew she'd screwed up, that she was ready to get help, they still looked at her with doubt, and that enraged her and made her, perversely, not want to cooperate.

She didn't make a move to turn on the movie, even though her parents were gone. Her head was resting on Sam's shoulder, kind of on his chest, too, and his arm was around her. If she listened closely, she could hear his heartbeat, and she found it comforting. She vacillated between never wanting him to leave her and not wanting him there to witness her humiliation, amazed that he still seemed to care about her despite the fact that he knew her dirty, disgusting secret. She was afraid that, at any moment, he would realize how pathetic she really was, and she would never see him again.

"So, uh, are you ready to watch the movie?"

She sighed deeply, which caused an ache in her still-sore abdomen, and her voice came out barely audible. "Yeah."

Sam was quiet for a moment and then said, "We don't have to watch it, TJ, if you don't feel like it."

It made her want to cry that he was so understanding, and she swallowed painfully, pissed that embarrassing tears were always so readily available. Normally, she would have jumped at the chance to watch the movie with him. Even though _The Breakfast Club _had come out around the year she was born, her mom had gotten her hooked on it—on most of the John Hughes films, in fact—and she loved it.

In different circumstances, finagling Sam into watching it with her would have been icing on the cake, but she wasn't in the mood for it today. There wasn't much she found joy in these days, and the fact that she'd been told she was stuck in the hospital for another week had sent her into a black void. All she wanted to do was sleep, and if she couldn't do that, she wanted to work on her classwork. Those were the only two things that seemed to give her any respite from the depression.

"It's just—I—I guess I'm tired," she stammered lamely.

He reached forward with his right arm and grabbed the shake. "Here."

She just lay there, staring at it.

"TJ, if you don't drink it, they're never gonna leave you alone. You know that."

She hated it, but she knew he was right. Besides, it didn't seem as bad when it was Sam offering her the drink.

She remained where she was, head nestled on his shoulder, but she reluctantly took the shake from him and sipped on the straw. It was too rich, too fake-chocolate tasting, and she grimaced, but she kept it in her hand instead of putting it back on the table.

Sam didn't give her any idiotic words of encouragement like Carla and even her mom tended to do, and TJ was glad. Instead, he made small talk. "So, uh, you've gotten a lot of cards and stuff, even one from your Latin professor."

TJ glanced around the room at the flowers, get-well cards, and stuffed animals her mom had decorated the otherwise sterile-looking room with. They looked cheerful and out of place, not fitting TJ's mood.

"Your dad showed it to me," he went on, a smile in his voice. "I thought it was pretty funny that it was signed 'Professor Prick.'"

She huffed. "Yeah. That one's a mystery. I've never called him that to his face. He's been surprisingly cool about me missing class, though."

Sam played idly with the hospital ID bracelet on her wrist, his fingers sometimes brushing her skin. "Who is the cheesy teddy bear from?"

She eyed the brown, oversized bear sitting in a chair in the corner of her room. It was at least three feet tall. "That's from my downstairs neighbors, Zach and Ralph. Their apartment is directly below mine."

His tone was was ironic. "Yeah, I know."

She looked up at him, meeting his eyes. "How do you know that?"

"Because they carried me up the stairs outside your apartment so I could get to you, you know, when we found you."

Her eyes widened in disbelief. She knew how much Sam would have hated asking the two frat boys for help.

His mouthed curved in amusement, as if he knew what she was thinking, and he put his hand around hers and lifted the shake to her lips. "Drink."

She absently obeyed, hardly tasting it, still thinking about what he'd done, the fact that he'd saved her life really sinking in for the first time. Humbled, she said simply, "Thank you."

He kissed the top of her head. "You're welcome."

She blushed a little, but it wasn't from embarrassment. She was flushed all over and felt a fierce love for him, an unrequited emotion that made her heart clench and took her breath away.

They were quiet after that, Sam occasionally encouraging TJ to drink the shake, but it wasn't awkward or annoying. The silence was finally broken when TJ finished the drink and made a loud, rude, slurping noise with the straw in the empty cup like a little kid would do, signifying that she was done.

Sam chuckled and tossed the cup into a small, nearby trashcan like a pro.

"Nice shot." She didn't remind him that they were supposed to save it so Carla could see that she drank it all.

"You feel any better?"

She thought for a moment. Maybe she did feel slightly better, but she wouldn't have admitted that to anyone but Sam. If it had been Carla, she would have denied it just on principle alone. "I guess," she said with reluctance.

"Look, TJ, I know it all sucks, but most of what they do to you _is_ for your own good." He paused, staring at the laptop with the paused movie. "It's taken me a long time to realize that, but I can sort of see it, now, and believe me, I was not an easy patient."

"What did you do, brood them to death?"

He let out a small laugh. "Something like that. As you know, I've also pretty much been a dick to Dean and Bobby."

"You've had a lot to adjust to, Sam. It's understandable, and I'm sure the shoulder injury didn't help."

He snorted. "No, it didn't, and what made it even worse was that it happened because of my own stupidity."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what happened, right?"

"All Dean said was that you fell getting out of the shower."

His tone was dry. "There's a little bit more to it than that. I was fucked up on pills and Jack Daniel's."

She was surprised. "_You_ were?" She'd hardly ever seen him drink anything but water, and certainly not whiskey.

"Yeah. My friend Jack and I had a good thing going until I screwed up my shoulder."

"Hm. Maybe I should give him a call," she said morosely.

"Uh, no. Trust me, it just makes things worse." His voice took on a huskier quality. "You know you can talk to me about anything, TJ."

Her throat narrowed and her chest suddenly tightened, making it impossible to speak.

"It helped, you know, when I talked to you." He laced his long, tapered fingers through hers. "I told you personal things that I would never tell anyone else."

She swallowed with difficulty and found her voice. "I know, and I'm glad you felt comfortable enough to do that, but with me, it's different."

"Why?"

_Because I'm in love with you, and I don't want you to know just how sick and pitiful I really am because I want you to love me back. _She couldn't say that, of course, knew he would never be _in _love with her, knew that she didn't deserve it. She didn't know how it was possible, but her throat and chest tightened even more, painfully so, and she couldn't stop the torrent of tears that suddenly streamed down her cheeks. She felt the weight of the bulimia and her futile feelings for Sam crushing her, and she shook her head, unable to squeeze enough air out to speak.

He hugged her tighter and placed his right palm gently on her cheek in a comforting gesture, rubbing away tears with his thumb.

She fisted a handful of his shirt, holding onto him for dear life as another wave of shameful despair washed through her. She was sobbing now, harder than she'd ever sobbed in her life. It made her incision hurt, but she couldn't stop the flood of emotion.

"Hey, it's okay," he said in a soothing voice.

She cried like a baby for several minutes, Sam murmuring words of comfort the whole time, and when she was done, she reached over and grabbed a few tissues from the box on her nightstand and blew her nose as delicately as she could, trying not to sound like some kind of lovesick moose. Then she lay her head back on Sam's shoulder, not looking at him, even though she could feel him looking down at her. "Wow," she said, wincing a little at the ache in her abdomen, "that was embarrassing."

He kissed the top of her head again. "Don't be embarrassed. Talk to me, TJ."

"I can't."

"Nothing you say will change the way I feel about you."

She couldn't keep a little sarcasm from her tone. "Because I'm your best friend, right?"

He gave a little perplexed laugh. "Is that a bad thing?"

_Yes. It's bad because I want to be your girlfriend, not your fucking best friend. _"No. You're my best friend, too. Maybe I should weave you a friendship bracelet, since I'm stuck here for another week. Don't they make loony bin patients do crafty stuff like that?"

She could feel his eye roll, even if she couldn't see it.

"You're not in the loony bin, TJ."

"I almost puked myself to death, Sam. That's pretty demented."

"When did it start?"

"Well, let's see. The binge was around eleven-fifteen, so I guess the puking started around noon."

"That's not funny. You know I'm talking about the bulimia."

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Gretchen said it was when you were a freshman in the dorms."

She felt heat rushing up her neck, shame warring with anger at Gretchen for telling him about it and wondering just how much her friend had said. "Well, why are you asking me? Just ask Gretchen," she groused.

He sighed. "Because I want to understand, and I want to hear it from you."

She stared at her fuzzy, white slippers and his brown, sock-clad feet and then at his loafers, which were sitting on the seat cushion of his wheelchair. "Why do you wear such suburban-dad shoes?"

"That has absolutely nothing to do with what we're talking about."

"Maybe we should get you some Converse sneakers. I know nobody wears them now, but I swear they'll be cool in a few years. You can be a trendsetter."

"Teej," he said with soft reproach.

He'd been calling her that lately, and she liked it, liked that he had a special name for her. She sighed and then said out of nowhere, "Eleven."

She still wasn't looking at him, but she could imagine that his brow was creased into a frown.

"What?" he said, sounding a little puzzled.

"It started when I was eleven."

"The bulimia?"

"No. The dieting."

"You started dieting when you were _eleven_?"

She nodded her head. "I've always been...large."

"You mean tall?"

"Well, that, too. I was _always_ the tallest girl in the class, and usually there weren't too many boys taller than me, either. I was always encouraged to play basketball and all the guy sports, like touch football. I'm sure if organized football for girls had existed, everyone would have wanted me for a linebacker," she said wryly.

He snorted. "Oh, come on. You're not a linebacker, TJ. You're just tall."

She huffed through her nose. "You just say that because you've only known the thin TJ. You didn't know the 'big-boned' TJ. That's how old ladies used to describe me. Sometimes they'd say I was 'statuesque,' trying to be delicate about it, I guess."

He grabbed her hand and rubbed one of her knuckles with his finger. "I don't see any big bones, just long ones, maybe."

She laughed a little. "Yeah, well, thanks. There were lots of words for it, though—stout, corn-fed, heavyset, solid. You get the idea. I wasn't necessarily obese or anything. I was just _big_."

He tilted his head a little and his eyes reflected her pain, as if he _knew_. "Did people actually call you those things?"

She looked at her fuzzy slippers again. "Pretty much, at one point or another, yeah. Most of them didn't mean to be unkind. I don't think they realized how much it affected me."

He put his fingers under her chin and tilted her face toward him. "Hey. None of that is true."

She rolled her eyes. "Not now. Haven't you heard? I'm thirty pounds underweight. I'm a bulimic with anorexic tendencies."

"Yeah. Kind of like I'm disabled and a paraplegic."

"Oh." She stared at him, realizing that he really did get it. "Yeah." She felt something release inside her, felt a little of the crushing weight lessen.

"It sucks to be labeled, doesn't it?"

"Wow. Now we really need to watch the movie. It's all about that. There's this one part at the end where Molly Ringwald, the rich girl, gives Judd Nelson, the loser, her diamond earring. It's so romantic and cool."

He grinned, showing his dimples. "You're such a girl."

_You're such a hotty._ She didn't say it, but she felt that surge in her blood again, the one that only Sam could cause.

"So, tell me the rest," he urged.

She paused for a moment, sort of reevaluating, and realized that it actually wasn't so bad, talking about it all with Sam. She exhaled and began her story. "I started yo-yo dieting when I was eleven."

"What's yo-yo dieting?"

"It's when you gain and lose weight, gain and lose. I probably lost and gained the same twenty-five pounds a million times. It was pretty painful, the 'Oh, TJ, you look so greats' and the 'Oh, well, it's really hard to keep it off, honeys.'"

He frowned, obviously trying to understand, like a really cool, good-looking, awesome guy who'd never had weight issues would do.

She actually held in a smile at the earnest expression on his face. "Anyhow, I was frustrated that I could never keep off the weight. I always felt so in control and successful when I lost it and like such an awful failure when I would gain it back again. It was like an addiction, though. I would be so hungry and obsessing about food when I was losing it and then promising myself, over and over, that I would start dieting again tomorrow, that whatever I was eating was The Last Supper, when I was gaining it all back.

"As you know from Gretchen," she said dryly, "I started the real eating disorder when I was a freshman in college, although the yo-yo dieting was probably a milder form of one." She took a deep breath, suddenly feeling the ache in her abdomen and chest again. "The always-lovely Chanel and a few of her friends were on the same floor as I was in the dorms."

He started rubbing circles on the palm of her hand in the gesture that was becoming their mutual way to comfort each other.

"I overheard Chanel talking about me behind my back one night. I won't bore you with the details, but the gist of it was that..." She trailed off. It was a memory that she'd kept locked away for a long time, and she still couldn't repeat the words she'd heard Chanel say, especially not to Sam. She cleared her throat and began again. "She made remarks about my size, and what she said hurt."

His jaw hardened, and his brow creased into a stormy look. "I'm sorry," he said, and he kissed the top of her head for a third time.

It was becoming a habit with him that she liked, although she wished he'd move it down a bit, like, say, to her lips. She forced the thought out of her mind and shook her head, focusing on the topic at hand. "As much of a bitch as Chanel is, it's not her fault. It was more about self-control. I was tired of always failing to keep the weight off, and I resolved that night that I would do whatever it took to lose the weight and keep it off. I was _never _going to be fat—or what I thought was fat—again."

He tightened his arm around her, made her feel safe, and it gave her the strength to go on.

"At first, it was just not eating. And I thought, 'Yay, I'm anorexic'—and, yeah, crazy as it sounds, I was _glad_ I was anorexic—but the hunger became unbearable. So, inevitably, I would binge, and I had to keep my promise to myself, my vow, that I wouldn't gain it back. So, I started..." She had to stop for a second, overcome with shame, trying to fight back the embarrassing, annoying tears again. She took in a fortifying breath and said, "I started making myself throw up. I got better for a while, but when Gretchen moved out, I started it again. I don't know why, really. I guess it's a control thing. I can't control my looks or my height, but I can control my weight."

He was quiet, still rubbing the circles on her hand.

She craved his touch, and she felt the need to babble, to do something to fill in the silence, to somehow keep him there, thinking that he was probably wishing he could get up and run away instead of being stuck there with her. "So, there you have it," she said. "I can't even be a proper anorexic. I know it's gross and disgusting, the whole barfing thing, but I couldn't stop."

He ceased rubbing her hand.

She closed her eyes for second, feeling the loss of his touch. "It's pretty pathetic, what I did. I know that. I mean, good Lord. There's people starvin' all over the world, and here I am doing it to myself _on purpose, _landin' myself in the hospital, almost killin' myself."

He still hadn't said anything, and the silence was deafening.

In a subdued tone, she said, "If you want to leave now, I'll understand. You can call an orderly—"

"Would you shut up?" He cupped her face in his hand. "Don't be ridiculous."

She looked up at him, meeting his eyes, and saw understanding and acceptance in them.

His mouth curved a little, and his dimples showed. "Why would I want to leave? We haven't even watched the movie." With mock sincerity, he said, "I _really_ want to see that part where Molly Ringwald gives her earring to Judd Nelson."

She laughed, and her heart was full to overflowing, and she almost blurted out right then and there that she loved him. Instead, she said, "You're so awesome."

"So are you," he said with sudden gravity. His hand was still tenderly holding her face, and he stared into her eyes. "There's nothing that you could ever tell me that would make me think differently. You have an eating disorder, TJ, but you are strong, and you will beat it. You have _nothing_ to be ashamed of. Do you hear me?"

She nodded, a little in awe of him. He was so commanding and certain, how could she argue?

His gaze shifted down to her lips.

For a split second, she thought he might actually kiss her, and her heart almost leaped out of her chest.

He ran his thumb along her cheekbone, his gaze still lingering on her mouth, but then, after a moment, his eyes seemed to shutter, and he let his hand fall to his lap. He cleared his throat and looked away, exhaling a deep breath. "So, uh, I guess we should get this movie started, then."

Her mouth had gone a little dry, and she swallowed. "Yeah," she said a little too brightly, and she leaned forward and unpaused it.

She felt like an idiot for thinking that he had wanted to kiss her, and she needed a good dowsing in a cold shower to cool her ardor. It was getting harder and harder to hide her feelings for him. In fact, it was downright painful, and she had the disturbing feeling that, eventually, one way or another, she was going to break.

**XXXXXXXX**

A week and a half later, Sam watched TJ as she studied, laptop in her lap and textbook lying open just to the side of her on the mattress. It was late in the evening, around ten. He was sitting next to her in his bed, both of them resting their backs against pillows supported by the wall, since he didn't have a headboard. He was looking at her profile, relieved that she was starting to look healthier and starting to fill out a little bit.

Her hair was down. She'd been wearing it that way more, and he liked it. It was silky and shiny again, and the color was dark and rich.

As though she felt his gaze on her, she turned to look at him, training her doe eyes and her impish freckles on him.

It made him smile. "Hey."

She gave him a faint smile in return. "Hay is for horses," she said, and held his gaze for a second before going back to her laptop.

She had been quiet today, and Sam chalked it up to the fact that she still tired easily. She had been released from the hospital four days ago, and her mom had gone back to her teaching job in Kentucky. Sam and Ferna Sue had both been worried when TJ had insisted that she could start going back to her classes, but, so far, other than the tiredness, she seemed to be handling them okay. However, she wouldn't be cleared to go back to work at Shorty's by her doctor for probably another month.

Fern had made Sam promise to look after TJ and make sure she went to her counseling sessions, saw her nutritionist, and went to her doctor's appointments, which Sam was glad to do. He was encouraged by the fact that Fern had trusted him and that she hadn't even seemed to question whether or not he was up to the task of looking out for her daughter.

He had been a little concerned at first that it might be weird and awkward getting TJ to eat, but she had been given specific foods and recipes by her nutritionist and a minimum number of calories that she was supposed to consume a day, and she and Sam had been making most of the meals together, sometimes with Bobby's help. She seemed to be adjusting without too much problem, and Sam felt almost guilty for having doubts. The only meal he didn't see her eat was breakfast, but she had promised that she was eating it, and he believed her. He knew that she needed him to believe her.

Of course, even if Fern hadn't asked, he still would have wanted to take care of TJ. He felt very protective of her and hated it when she was out of his sight. The only times he wasn't with her were when she was in class and after she went home at night to go to bed. He had a fierce need to be with her, to know that she was okay, but he also needed to be with her for his own selfish reasons. Now, more than ever, he needed her to make him forget. He felt a disquiet deep inside himself, a building anxiety, and knew that Azazel was coming soon. The nights were torture for him, and he couldn't sleep.

She marked her place in her book, closed it, and shut down her laptop. "I guess I should go. It's getting late."

He grabbed her hand, liking the feel of her smooth skin. He wanted to touch her all the time, couldn't seem to get enough of her. She had almost died, and he told himself that was the reason his feelings had changed toward her—they were much stronger and more intense than he'd realized that night he'd had the talk with Dean—and he didn't analyze it too closely. There was too much brewing on the horizon, and the last thing he needed right now was to complicate his relationship with TJ. Maybe after he took care of Yellow Eyes, maybe then. Maybe when he was whole.

She gave his hand a friendly squeeze and tried to let go.

He held on tighter, not releasing her. "Stay. I don't want you to go."

Why had he said that? He knew she shouldn't stay. What if he had an accident during the night? He knew TJ would understand, but it wouldn't make it any less embarrassing.

"We're both tired," she said. "In fact, Sam, you look exhausted. Get a good night's sleep. I'll see you after my class in the morning."

He still didn't let go of her hand. He was losing his mind. "Sleep here."

She arched her brows. "I'm not that kind of girl."

"I won't be able to sleep if you don't stay."

She frowned a little. "Why can't you sleep anymore, Sam? This has been going on for a while, hasn't it?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"Is it nightmares?"

He didn't answer. This was not something he could talk about with her right now, but, eventually, if he survived to tell the tale and he managed to trick the demon into curing him, he would have to tell her everything. He wondered what her reaction would be.

She reached over with her free hand and softly caressed his cheek. Then she traced his jawline and lightly ran her fingertips over his neck.

He felt a jolt of unexpected adrenaline rush through him, a sexual feeling that he hadn't experienced in a very long time, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the small taste of pleasure.

She let her fingertips roam over the little bit of his collarbone that was exposed under his shirt.

His heartbeat quickened, and he was torn between knowing he should make her stop and wanting her to touch him forever. Finally, reason won out, and he gently grabbed her wrist. "Teej, what are you doing?"

She kept her features neutral, but there was something more in her eyes, something smoldering just below the surface. She extricated her wrist from his grasp and turned herself more toward him. "Aren't you ever curious, Sam?"

He raised his brows. "I thought you weren't that kind of girl."

"I'm a scientist. I like to experiment."

The way she said it made his blood heat up.

"I mean, it's sort of like you're a virgin again. Don't you want to see what it's like? I mean, you haven't...done anything since your injury, right?"

"I know what it'll be like. It'll be like nothing. I can't _feel_ anything, TJ."

She stared at him with those eyes, and, in the next instant, she was straddling his lap. She wiggled her hips a little. "You can't feel that, can you?" Her voice was objective, actually like a scientist, but her eyes were still beautifully sensual.

He gritted his teeth, embarrassed and a little angry. "You know I can't. Just stop."

She bent down and kissed him just under his jawline in the curve where his neck began. "You can feel that, though, can't you?" she said softly.

Yes, he could. It took his breath away, and he felt pathetic for craving such a simple thing. "S-Stop."

"Why do you want me to stop? What have you got to lose, Sam? We're just friends. It's not like we're in love with each other. Let me do this for you. There's no strings attached, and you know I won't judge you. You know you can trust me." She placed her hands on the nape of his neck and started to rub the outline of his ears lightly with her thumbs.

The small action felt incredible. He'd been told in rehab that the parts of his body that still had sensation would be extra sensitive in order to compensate, but he hadn't believed it—until now.

"I won't even kiss you on the mouth. You know, like in _Pretty Woman."_

"What?" He suddenly wanted nothing more than her mouth on his.

"You know, that movie with Julia Roberts and Richard Gere? The hookers in that great example of classic cinema said that's the one cardinal rule—never kiss on the mouth. It makes it too personal."

"You're not a hooker."

Her eyes darkened seductively and she leaned over, replacing her thumb with her lips on his earlobe, darting her tongue into his ear.

His body tensed, and his heartbeat sky-rocketed.

She kissed him in the place just under his ear on his neck. "I'll be whatever you want me to be," she whispered, her breath warm and teasing.

It felt so good, and it had been so long, that he couldn't resist. He grabbed her upper arms, feeling shivers of pleasure course through him as she kissed her way from his earlobe down his neck to where his collarbone began.

She tugged on his shirt and said, "This needs to go."

He felt trepidation. What was he doing? What good would come of this?

She was quick, though, and pulled his shirt off, watching out for his shoulder, before he could protest. Then she stared at him, her expression one of disbelief. "Oh, my God."

He felt a stab of humiliation. Did she find him repulsive—all the old hunting scars, the fact that his body was like two different people put together, one half healthy and strong, the other half weak and useless?

He grabbed for his shirt. "TJ, please. Just stop."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and ran her fingers over his chest muscles, tracing them, and then over an old scar. "There's no way I'm stopping," she said defiantly, and lifted her eyes to his. "You're so..." She trailed off and swallowed thickly. "Your body is beautiful, Sam."

He was stunned for a moment, and then he felt suddenly lighter, almost euphoric. He wanted TJ. God, how he wanted her. He grabbed the bottom of her sweatshirt and began pulling it up.

She put her hands on his, halting him. "This is about you, not me."

"I want to see you, TJ. I want to feel you."

There was pain in her eyes, and she covered it up with a wry smirk. "Let's not ruin the illusion."

"I want to touch your skin and feel your body. It's part of the pleasure for me."

Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she looked away. "I don't want you to see."

He cupped her trembling chin with his finger and turned her head toward him. He was still sitting up against the pillows, and he leaned forward a fraction and kissed her tenderly on the lips, relishing the sweetness of her, the smell of her hair. He pulled back just enough to say, "I want this to be personal. I need it to be. Let me see you, TJ."

She closed her eyes. It wasn't a protest or permission.

* * *

><p>He pulled off her sweatshirt.<p>

She was like a statue, unmoving, and the sight of her stole his breath.

She was still too thin, which was to be expected, but her skin was so feminine and flushed, almost glowing, giving off a heat that called to him. It was marred only by the fresh, neat, dark-pink scar just under her breastbone and the small, matching holes where the tubes had been. She was stunning, and her imperfections made her more desirable to him because he understood.

He ducked his head and placed his lips lightly on the scar, inhaling the dewy, clean scent of her.

She sucked in an audible breath, her abdominal muscles flinching.

He unhooked her bra, pulled it off, and then cupped one of her breasts in his hand, where it fit perfectly, and put his mouth over her other breast, working his tongue over her taut nipple.

"_You _are beautiful, TJ," he managed to rasp out. "You're so, so beautiful."

She ran her fingers through his hair and then pushed him back against the pillows, locking her gaze with his. Then, she kissed him, long and deep, her tongue slowly caressing the inside of his mouth. It was unlike any kiss he'd ever experienced—hot, throbbing, decadent—and he was disappointed when she broke away, but not for long.

She started out with little kisses down his neck, then a tender, reciprocal kiss on the surgical scar of his right shoulder, then down his arm, kissing the inside of his elbow and flicking her tongue in the crease there.

It felt incredible, and, again, it was like his body was compensating for what he'd lost, letting him feel more intensely in places he never would have noticed before. It caused a mini earthquake inside him, and he took in a sharp breath. "Oh, God."

She then kissed her way across his chest, stopping to lick and tease each nipple.

It was almost...orgasmic, and he groaned.

She lingered there for several minutes, obviously sensing the sweet torment she was causing, and then made her way down to the area just above his navel. She began to taste him there with her tongue, swirling it in hot little circles all across his stomach.

It was driving him wild, a thousand times more intense than he'd ever thought possible, and when he closed his eyes, he saw a burst of vivid colors, a kaleidoscope of intense splendor that echoed what he was feeling.

And then he felt...nothing.

He opened his eyes and saw that she was kissing him below his navel where he had no sensation. She had unzipped his jeans and pulled his boxers off his hips and was in the vicinity of his hipbone, rapidly making her way lower and lower. He tried to keep the disappointment and bitterness from his voice, knowing she didn't realize it. "TJ, I can't—you're kissing me in the area I can't feel."

She stopped and raised up, blushing furiously, and sat back on her heels. "Oh, God. I'm so sorry. I forgot."

"It's okay."

"It's just—"

"It's just what?"

She looked down, blushing an even deeper shade of red. After a minute, though, she seemed to compose herself and looked him in the eye, her brow slightly creased. "I know you don't—I'm sorry you can't feel it, but I can. For me, you're all there, Sam. I can feel all of you. Your body is whole and complete, and, well, it turns me on. I—I like kissing you there. I know that makes me selfish, and I'm sorry."

Again, he was stunned by her honesty and was speechless.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, and she sounded almost desperate. "Please—"

"Come here," he commanded, reaching for her.

She obeyed.

He put his finger over her lips, realizing that she thought he was mad at her. "It's okay." He tugged on her upper arms, pulling her to him, and kissed her the way she had kissed him, thorough and searing, loving the connection to her, the sense that they were becoming one.

Still kissing her, he roamed his hands over her breasts, coaxing her nipples with his thumbs, eliciting a small moan from her that seemed to vibrate into him.

When they finally broke the kiss, she gave him a sultry, challenging look. "Sam, I want to—" She stopped, as if she was trying to find the right words to say. "This is an experiment, right?"

He smiled, feeling slightly drunk on adrenaline. "I guess, if you want to call it that." He ran his fingertips over her ribs, and she shivered.

She took his face in both of her hands, her eyes full of meaning. "What I want is _you_. I want you inside me."

He swallowed, denial on his lips.

She kissed him and rested her forehead on his. "Please, just let me try."

He shook his head.

She sat back a little. "You said yourself you can get an erection. Let's just see what happens."

Again, he shook his head. "I don't think it's enough. It won't last—"

"Sam, you're safe with me. If it doesn't happen, it doesn't happen. Like I said, you know I'm not going to judge you. At least you'll know one way or the other, for the next time," her brow creased, and she swallowed, "when you're maybe with someone you're serious about, maybe in love with, like a girlfriend."

_I think I'm in love with you._ He wanted to say it, but it was wrong. He couldn't move forward with anything until he knew what would happen with Azazel. If things didn't go as planned, but he still managed to survive—if he was stuck in a wheelchair forever—he didn't want TJ to be tied down to him.

She started kissing him again on his neck and making the circles again with her tongue. Then she stopped long enough to say, "Please, Sam." Her Kentucky accent came through, sounding deep and husky.

He couldn't make himself answer her, couldn't exactly deny her. She was very persuasive.

All of his senses were focused on what she was doing to him, on the new sensations that his hypersensitive nerves were allowing him. He'd never really paid attention to these feelings before, had never really properly noticed them before his injury.

He could hear the rustle of clothing and knew that, although her tongue was giving him pleasure in all the places he still had sensation, her hands were somewhere else, doing things he hadn't exactly given her permission to do but that he hadn't forbidden, either. On a subconscious level, he understood what she was doing—knew when she paused to take off her jeans—but he didn't want to think about it, chose to focus instead on what he _could_ feel, rather than on what he couldn't.

He suddenly felt her moving in a rhythm, but then she stopped and placed his hands on her hips. "Make me move, Sam. I want you to do it."

At first, he couldn't. He was frozen, overwhelmed by the fact that she must have made him hard, that he was inside her, and he hadn't even known it. It was horrifying that he couldn't feel it, but, at the same time, the look of blatant desire on her face was exhilarating. He realized in that moment that a big part of the enjoyment of sex, of his masculinity, even, was being able to give a woman pleasure.

"Sam, please. I want you to control it."

He obeyed her then, moving her hips with his hands in an up and down motion, feeling the hard curves of her hipbones.

She closed her eyes. "Oh, God. A little faster. Make me go a little faster."

He did as she asked, watching her face, remembering what it felt like, living vicariously through her.

Time seemed to stop, and then she bent forward, thrusting her tongue in his ear.

It sent a hot shiver down his spine, and it took him a second to realize that she was resisting him now, that she had stopped moving.

She placed his hand down on her private area. "Finish me, Sam," she said, voice husky with desire.

He felt with his fingers the moisture of her, the heat. He could tell by his fingers that he was still inside her, but he wasn't filling her as he should be, and he knew he had lost his erection. He was mortified, and his heart sank.

"Sam, please. It's okay. It still feels so good."

He pulled at her hips, trying to get her off of him.

She fought him. "Don't you dare. _Finish_ me before I go insane."

He began to rub her, then, with his fingers, and soon her breathing came fast and heavy, and she was radiating heat and the musky smell of sex.

She took his mouth in a kiss, thrusting her tongue and moaning softly, letting him feel the building inferno inside her. When she climaxed, he felt a surge of excitement in his body, too, unlike anything he'd felt before. It wasn't the denouement that he had experienced before his injury, the starburst of a normal orgasm, but it was good. In fact, the whole experience had been a steady, pulsing wave of pleasure, no real beginning or end. It wasn't better than the sex he'd known before his injury, but he was shocked to discover that it wasn't necessarily worse, either. Just...different.

* * *

><p>TJ had shown him erogenous zones that he had never known he had—and new ways to experience them. And he wanted to do it again. With her. He knew that a lot of his enjoyment had been because it was with her, that she was the most important part of the equation.<p>

Spent, she held onto his shoulders, panting, her forehead resting in the curve of his neck.

He was panting, too, and, at first, he felt dazed. It had been good for him, but then he remembered with fierce embarrassment what had happened, and he swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."

She drew back and looked at him, giving a little laugh. "For what?"

He felt heat creeping up his neck and looked away. "I think it's safe to say the experiment was pretty much a failure."

"Oh," she said, the realization of what he meant in her voice. She placed her palm on his cheek. "I wouldn't say that at all."

He suddenly felt the old feelings of despair and humiliation.

"Sam, look at me."

He hesitated, but then he finally did as she asked.

"You have _nothing_ to be sorry for. You still satisfied me, and, believe me, it was amazing."

He knew what she was doing, that she was trying to boost his self-confidence. "No charity compliments, remember?"

She took his face in both her hands and kissed him tenderly and deeply. When she was done, she said, "It _wasn't_ a charity compliment."

What he saw in her eyes made his heart soar in one moment and then plummet to his stomach in the next. Dean had been right. Her feelings for him were there, raw and unfettered. Her expressive eyes said it all, and he knew then that she had feelings for him that ran much deeper than just friendship.

He felt the same, but he couldn't tell her that she meant everything to him. He wanted to ask for more time, to ask her to wait, but he couldn't do that. Things were too uncertain, and he wasn't even sure he'd be alive in a few days. He'd either be cured or dead. The showdown with Azazel was coming. He could feel it. His fucking demon blood was attuned to it.

He looked away from her and closed his eyes, feeling his chest compress painfully.

She placed her palm on his cheek and gently turned his face toward her. "Sam?"

He opened his eyes and felt his heart break at what he saw.

There was profound sadness and resignation on her features, and she gave him a weak smile. "It's okay. Best friends, no strings attached, right?"

She had misunderstood his reaction, thought he didn't feel the same as she did, and he didn't correct her. It was better this way, better that she believed there could be nothing between them but friendship, at least for now. However, doing what was right didn't keep him from feeling a crushing guilt, knowing he was hurting her. It was almost more than he could stand.

Her smile grew stronger, although the sadness was still there, and she rubbed her fingers gently over his forehead, as if trying to smooth the creases there. "Don't give me the puppy-dog eyes, Sam. It's okay."

Before he could respond, she raised herself up and then swiveled onto her side of the bed and jumped off, picking up her jeans and underwear that she had flung onto the floor. She turned her back to him and began putting them on, and he leaned from side to side, pulling his boxers and jeans back up onto his hips that she had pushed down to his thighs.

He watched as she deftly put her bra back on and then her SDSU sweatshirt, covering her bony spine and her skin that he now knew the softness and warmth of so intimately. She pulled her hair out from under the collar of the sweatshirt, her dark strands cascading in a silky shroud just past her shoulders, and the sight made his heart ache and his mouth go dry. His voice was husky and thick. "TJ—"

"I don't know why—I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. I'm really _not _that kind of girl. Let's just pretend it didn't happen, okay?" she drawled. She was trying to be nonchalant, but her accent betrayed the depth her emotion. She put her textbook and laptop back into her backpack and slung it and her purse over her shoulder, as he'd seen her do a hundred times.

It would be impossible to pretend it hadn't happened. He would never forget what she had done for him, how good she had made him feel. He just wished he could have done the same for her.

She just stared at him for a minute, her face unreadable. "I'll call you after my class tomorrow morning."

He nodded, unable to find his voice.

In the next instant, she was out the door, shutting it quietly behind her.

**XXXXXXXX**

The next morning, Bobby raised up from his sofabed and stretched, trying to get the usual stiffness out of his back. It was time to get Sam up, although Sam didn't really need Bobby's help anymore. He could do most things on his own again and really only need Bobby's help for the more difficult, uneven transfers. He could transfer himself to most things using the board, although he was probably doing more with his shoulder than he should be. It didn't seem to be having an adverse affect on him, though. Dr. Ogden had said the other day at Sam's checkup that everything was looking good, and the shoulder was still healing well.

Bobby hoped they got all the Yellow-Eyed Demon crap resolved soon. He'd been away from his salvage business for a long time, and, although it was basically just a front for his hunting activities and a way to get a meager income, he still couldn't totally neglect it for much longer. Sam was much better, and Bobby wasn't needed as much on that score. He was basically just a glorified babysitter, hopefully keeping the demon from messing with Sam.

Bobby rubbed a hand over his face and scratched his head. He had been keeping a close watch on the signs, and the demonic activity had escalated. The demon would make a move soon. He just hoped to God they'd be ready this time before something bad happened to Sam.

He stood up and pulled on his jeans and a flannel shirt, which he always wore, no matter how nice the weather was outside, because flannel was all he had. Then he made his way into the kitchen and got a pot of coffee started before walking down the hallway to Sam's door. He knocked and called, "Sam, you need any help?"

There was no answer.

He knocked louder. Sam was usually awake by this time, but there was no telling. TJ had stayed later than usual last night, so maybe that had something to do with it. "Sam? Just want to know if you need some help, kiddo."

There was still no answer, and that was definitely not like Sam. He was still too much of a hunter to sleep through Bobby's knocking.

Bobby opened the door a crack and peeked through. Sam's bed was unmade, and he wasn't in it. He opened the door wider and went over to the bathroom, repeating his knocking. "Sam, you in there?"

There was no answer from Sam, no noises like water running or teeth being brushed.

"Boy, if you don't want me comin' in there and interrupting somethin', you better start talkin'."

He was met with silence.

He tried the knob, and it turned easily, obviously unlocked. He opened the door to an empty bathroom, and the hairs started to prickle on the back of his neck.

He turned around, searching Sam's room with his eyes, and felt a stab of fear at what he saw. He didn't know how he had missed it before. Sam's wheelchair sat in the farthest corner from the bed, empty, mocking.

"Balls!" he yelled, and then felt something stronger was in order. "Damn it all to hell!"

A cold feeling of dread seeped into the pit of his stomach. He ran a shaky hand over his face, sure that the Winchester boys were going to be the death of him someday soon, and went to find his phone to call Dean.

_**TBC**_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Azazel had appeared almost the instant after TJ walked out of Sam's room.

Sam had just put his shirt back on, thinking about everything that had happened with her, thinking about how incredible and special she was and how he had just let her walk away.

Then, Azazel had materialized out of thin air, as was his usual mode of entry, and stood by Sam's bed. "Hello, Sammy," he'd said in that pleasantly evil way of his, and Sam knew that he had done the right thing by letting TJ go.

He stared at the demon and felt a certain detachment. He had been anticipating and dreading Azazel's visit for so long that, now that the demon was standing in front of him, it was sort of a letdown. Yellow Eyes didn't seem so intimidating in his used-car salesman meat suit now that Sam had a plan. It was an unbelievably simple plan, but sometimes the simplest solution was the best way to solve a big problem. Sam felt a confidence that he hadn't felt in the demon's presence before.

Azazel sniffed the air and gave Sam a calculating look. "Whatcha been up to, Sam?"

Sam just looked at him.

"Got something going on with that girl that just left?"

Sam's stomach knotted with cold fear, the calm he'd felt just moments ago disappearing in a flash. "She's just a friend."

Azazel smirked. "Of course. Couldn't be anything more, could it, at least, not as you are now?"

Sam clenched his jaw. In the living room, he could hear TJ saying goodbye to Bobby, heard the front door shut, and prayed that Bobby wouldn't come to his room while the demon was there.

Azazel was thoughtful, seemed distracted for a moment, and then he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "So, you ready, tiger? Had enough of this?" he said, indicating the wheelchair sitting by Sam's bed.

"No," said Sam, his heart pounding, lying his ass off. "It's not worth it. I won't help you free Lucifer. It would hurt too many people."

Azazel raised his brows. "Such a sacrifice, Sam. Have you really thought about what you're giving up?"

"Every minute of every day. But you want me to leave everyone behind, everyone I love, not to mention put them in danger, since who knows what will happen to them once the devil is topside. The answer is no. I won't do that."

Azazel narrowed his eyes. "Ah. So noble and strong of you, willing to remain a cripple for those you love."

Sam was grinding his teeth so hard he thought his jaw might break, and he hoped his heart slamming into his chest wouldn't give him away.

The demon raised his finger, tilting his head a little, his eyes flaring yellow. "I have to say, I'm impressed. I really thought I would have persuaded you by now, Sammy."

"It's Sam."

The demon chuckled and thought for a moment. "You know, maybe you should take that healthy, _able_ body I've promised you out for another test drive."

"What?" Sam felt as if he were at the precipice of a cliff, either about to take a plunge or be pulled from the edge. He was so close to getting what he wanted.

Azazel sounded as if Sam really was buying a used car from him. "Sure. Take it for a spin, say, twelve hours or so. Sorry I can't make it longer, but I'm on a timetable here. Lucifer's ready to get this party started!"

Sam wanted to agree, but he didn't want to seem too eager, didn't want to make Azazel suspicious.

"Twelve hours should be long enough for you to see what you'll be missing if you refuse me, long enough to sate your desires," he winked with innuendo, "but not so long that you can't explain it away somehow to Dean and all the rest of those pathetic humans that you claim to love if you decide to remain a cripple."

God, how Sam hated that word, especially coming from the demon. He wanted to rip Azazel's throat out for saying it, but he had to keep calm. "I said no."

Yellow Eyes smiled at him, but it was the smile of pure evil. "I won't take no for an answer."

In the next instant, Azazel stuck out his hand, palm outward facing Sam, not even touching him this time, and Sam felt his whole body start to tingle, just as it had in the nightmare. Time seemed to stop, and then Azazel put his hand down.

Sam lay there, almost afraid to try to move, afraid it was too good to be true. Finally, he made an attempt to sit up, and it was easy. He then rotated his bad shoulder, and, just like before, it was healed. _Everything _was in working order, and he could _feel_ everything. He wiggled his bare toes and felt a thrill, kind of like he was on a roller coaster, and it took all his energy not to laugh with the triumph and elation of it.

"Twelve hours, Sammy. Take it around the block, kick the tires."

With effort, Sam maintained control of his feelings and stood, towering over Azazel. "And when the twelve hours are up?"

"If you come with me and agree to lead the army, you get to keep this body, of course. You're cured." His eyes darkened with menace. "You don't come with me? Then it's back to gimpville forever." He paused for effect, and when he spoke again, his voice was falsely carefree. "Of course, if your decision is already made, I can change you back right now, and our little negotiation will be done. I'll leave you alone for good, but you'll never have another chance to change your mind."

Sam exhaled harshly and pretended to agonize over the decision. "Fine. I'll give it twelve hours."

Azazel smiled with demonic delight. "I thought so. Feels too good, doesn't it, to actually be able to _feel_?"

"I assume you'll find me," said Sam, ignoring Azazel's little dig.

"Don't call me; I'll call you," the demon said with a laugh, and then he was gone.

Sam smiled without humor. So far, things had been easy, almost too easy, but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Yellow Eyes had done exactly as Sam had wanted. Now, he had to get the Colt before Bobby figured out something was up.

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam sat in his wheelchair, waiting, trying to stay calm. Bobby would come soon to ask him if he needed any help with getting ready for bed, and he tried to look like he was still paralyzed and hoped that Bobby didn't notice anything different about the way his legs looked.

He didn't have to wait long when Bobby knocked on his door.

"Come in."

Bobby stuck his head in. "I'm goin' to bed. Need any help?"

"No. I can do it," Sam said, nervously pushing his wheels forward and then back in a move that was a little like pacing.

Bobby nodded. "All right. 'Night, kid."

Sam swallowed, hating to lie to Bobby, knowing this might be the last time he ever saw him. "'Night, Bobby."

Bobby made a move to go.

"Hey, Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

A lump formed in Sam's throat, and he hesitated. "Thanks, you know, for everything."

Bobby stared at him intently for a moment. "You're welcome, kiddo."

Sam gave him a half-smile, trying to look as if everything was normal, and Bobby left, shutting the door behind him.

Sam waited another minute, just to be sure, and then quickly got out of the wheelchair and dug his Pumas out of his closet and put them on. Then he grabbed his cell phone and some money off his nightstand and slipped them in his jeans pocket.

The wheelchair sat there next to his bed, almost as if it were staring at him with accusation, and he pushed it into a corner of the room, hoping that he would never need it again. Then, he cracked open the door to his room, listening.

He could hear silverware rattling and dishes clanking in the kitchen, like Bobby was maybe loading the dishwasher, and he quickly crept his way down the hallway to Dean's room. Dean wasn't home from Shorty's yet, but he would be any minute.

Sam's heart pounded as he entered the room. He remembered the conversation he'd overheard between Dean and Bobby, that it had sounded like Dean had put the Colt somewhere high, and he looked around. Of course, the closet was the most obvious choice, and he walked over to it and carefully opened the door.

His heart soared at the fact that he could see on the top shelf of the closet without having to tiptoe, relishing his height, but the small bit of euphoria was dashed when he saw nothing but an old, empty duffel of Dean's and a pair of old boots. The custom-made box they kept the Colt in was nowhere in sight.

He looked around Dean's room again, chagrined to see that there were really no other high places, and wondered what Dean could have meant when he had said, "up here."

Just for grins, he rummaged around in the large, battered old dresser where Dean kept some of his clothes and underwear, but there wasn't much in the drawers, and it didn't take him long to see that there was no Colt in there, either.

He even looked under the bed, but there was nothing there but dust.

Since Dean's bathroom was across the hall, and Sam knew Dean and Bobby hadn't gone in there that day he'd heard them talking, he decided to try the closet one more time.

He sifted through a few shirts and Firestone uniforms and then even looked down on the floor. There was one pair of running shoes, and Sam couldn't ever remember seeing Dean wear them. He smiled to himself, thinking that the only exercise Dean ever did was training for the hunt, and maybe, if things went the way he wanted, he and Dean could train together like they used to. Maybe he'd even drag Dean's ass out for a jog.

He stood up, at a loss, thinking that Dean had probably taken the Colt with him or maybe Dean and Bobby had rehidden it, but, to be thorough, he felt along the underside of the top shelf of the closet. "Yahtzee," he said to himself, feeling the rectangular shape of a box there, duct-taped to keep it in place. He pulled off the tape and freed the box, his heart starting to race as he set it on Dean's bed and opened the lid. "Yes," he whispered. The Colt was there, perfectly ensconced in the felt of the old box.

He heard the front door open and then Dean's voice murmuring a greeting to Bobby.

"Shit." His heart went into overdrive, about to hammer out of his chest, and he tucked the gun in his waistband in the back of his jeans and hurriedly taped the box back on the underside of the shelf.

He could hear Dean's footsteps coming down the hall and dove under the bed and lay diagonally, barely fitting on his belly and scraping his back on the metal of the bed frame, curling his legs up a little like a frog so his feet wouldn't stick out, which was incredibly uncomfortable.

Dean entered the room.

Sam could see his brother's boots in his line of sight. He could hear his blood rushing in his ears and he was barely breathing, hoping that Dean's big-brother radar and overly-astute hunting senses didn't give him away.

Dean kicked off his boots and rummaged in a dresser drawer, and Sam hoped that his brother was getting clean clothes and was about to take a shower. Sometimes, Dean left it until morning because he was always so exhausted when he came home from work. He started to softly hum a Metallica song and then left the room.

Sam fought off a sneeze from the dust under the bed and could feel his stomach tighten. He had a gut-wrenching feeling that this might be the last time he was near his brother and felt a pang of remorse that he couldn't explain things to Dean, that he couldn't say goodbye. He would just have to make sure that this wasn't the end, that he would survive and that Azazel ate a bullet from the Colt and never fucked with their lives again.

Sam waited, and to his relief, he heard the bathroom door across the hall shut and the sound of the shower being turned on.

He slid out from under the bed, scraping his back again, and sneaked out the window, carefully replacing the screen on the outside so that nothing would look out of place, hoping that no one would discover he was gone until tomorrow morning.

Then, he ran, because he had to—and because he could.

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam had been up all night, but he didn't feel tired. He was exhilarated. First, he'd run—for how many miles, he didn't know—until his lungs felt like they were going to explode, just for the hell of it. Then, he'd walked for a while with no particular destination in mind, just around an unfamiliar part of San Diego where he'd ended up, relishing the freedom of movement, the lightness.

At five in the morning, he had boosted a car and driven to the ocean, where he had run barefooted on a deserted stretch of beach in the moonlight like a little kid. He had rolled up his jeans and waded into the water, feeling the wet sand squish between his toes, the brisk cold of the waves lapping over his calves.

He was sitting on the beach, now, watching the sunrise, awed by its spectacular beauty, wondering why he hadn't seen a sunrise since his injury. There was no reason he couldn't have. He could see a sunrise from his wheelchair just as easily as he could without it, and God knew he'd been awake plenty of times to see one.

There were lots of things he still could have done from the chair, but it had all been too new, too raw. He'd been so angry, so resentful, and he'd just wanted to shut himself away.

He realized how much life he had wasted in the last year, mostly because he'd been stubborn, and he thought how ironic it was that, now that he could walk again, he was contemplating how he could have lived his life differently—better—in his chair.

Could he go back to the wheelchair if he had to? He'd thought he could, but Azazel knew what he was doing when he'd let Sam "test drive" a fully-functioning body. Sam had wanted this chance, and if Azazel hadn't offered to make him whole, Sam would have suggested it himself. He'd needed to be able to walk to look for the Colt, but he hadn't thought about how much it would affect him, how even just these few hours on the beach had been sheer bliss.

He thought of TJ and wanted to go to her, wanted so badly to show her what he was like now, wanted to bury himself in her and feel her with every inch of his body, craved to be able to satisfy her and make her feel the pleasure that she'd shown him, that she deserved.

He wondered what their relationship would be like if he didn't succeed but still survived, if he ended up paralyzed forever with no real hope of a cure. Could they still be friends after what had happened last night? They would have to find a way because he still wanted her in his life, although he would never let things get to the point they had last night.

Conversely, he wondered what she would think if he wasn't in the chair, if he was suddenly healed. One thing was for sure, he would let her know how he felt, that he loved her.

Sam had no intention of accepting Azazel's deal, and he hoped Azazel would be dead before he figured out what Sam was up to. Sam didn't think the demon knew he had the Colt, but Sam was no dummy. He knew it was a long shot at best, that Azazel was a formidable, cunning opponent, and he wished he had a better plan. Killing the demon with the Colt was the only option Sam had, though. The demon had no other weaknesses, and it was the only way to kill him.

He stood, put his shoes back on, and walked for a while, turning things over and over in his mind, waiting for Azazel to summon him or come to him. It would be better to have the element of surprise, but Sam had no way of knowing where Azazel was. So, he waited, watching the warm sun get higher and higher in the sky, feeling the chill of the morning ocean breeze, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten as his twelve hours dwindled away.

The beach was peaceful and beautiful, belying the turmoil inside him, and he tried to concentrate on each step he made, relishing the grittiness of the sand as it infiltrated his shoes. He thought that he should go, that he shouldn't waste this time just walking on the beach, but he was mesmerized by this new body, marveling at how his brain would tell his toes, his feet, his legs to move, and they did. It was because of this that he let his guard down and was startled when he suddenly felt a pistol jammed next to his temple and an arm across his windpipe, holding him like a vise.

"Got something you wanna tell me, Sammy?" It was Dean's gruff voice, cold and deadly as steel, right next to his ear.

Sam froze for a second, his heart almost stopping. "Dean," he said carefully, "I can explain."

"He got to you, didn't he, Sammy? Yellow Eyes got to you. Are you even still Sam anymore?"

Sam swallowed, hating the sorrow and bitterness he heard in his brother's voice, and felt almost panicky. The demon would be making a move soon, and Sam didn't want Dean anywhere near him. "Dean, I swear it's still me. Please, just put the gun down and let me explain."

There was a long hesitation from Dean, and then he slowly removed the gun from Sam's temple and backed away.

Sam turned around to see Dean still holding the business end of the handgun aimed at him. Sam held up his hands in supplication. "I have a plan, Dean. Everything will be okay. It's not what you think."

"You took the Colt." The betrayal in Dean's eyes was stark and raw.

"Dean—"

"Was that the deal, Sam? You get to walk again if you give that bastard the Colt?"

"No."

"There's more to it, right? You're one of his bitches, now. He's always had something planned for you, and you agreed to it. That's why you're up walkin' around."

"Dean, please, can we talk about this without you pointing a gun at me?"

Dean shook his head. "How can I trust you, Sammy? You've been lying to me. He's been fucking with you for months, hasn't he?"

Sam held in a sudden surge of anger at his brother's lack of faith, and his voice held a hard edge. "Yes, but it's not what you think. I'm stronger than that, Dean."

"I see you walking around, Sammy. That pretty much says it all."

"Dude, listen. I haven't agreed to do anything yet. This," he indicated his legs, "is a temporary deal, a sort of trial period so I can see what I've been missing," he added sarcastically, "as if I didn't already know."

Dean looked wary. "So, what's the deal on the table, then?"

"The demon has been trying to get me to lead some demon army of his and help him free Lucifer from hell. If I agree, I'm cured."

Dean's eyes widened. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?"

It all seemed so farfetched, even for their line of work, that Sam could hardly believe it himself. "I know. It's way bigger than we ever thought. Believe me, no one is more repulsed and horrified about it than I am. That's what he's been doing these last couple of months, trying to persuade me. If I agree, he heals me. Of course, in return, I become his and Lucifer's bitch and help them destroy the world, I guess. He hasn't really given me all the details."

Dean's features were too rigid, like he was using all his strength to control his emotions. "Why you, Sammy?"

As good as it felt to stand, Sam suddenly felt a little weak in the knees. He didn't want to tell Dean about what Azazel had shown him, and he clenched his eyes shut for a second. When he opened them, he forced himself to look Dean in the eye. "I think—I don't really understand it all. There are supposedly others like me, chosen when we were babies to sort of be contenders for this demon army thing, to lead it."

Dean showed no reaction, just stood there, still pointing the gun.

"He showed me..." Sam stopped and closed his eyes, not wanting to picture the night his mom had been killed. He took in a deep breath before going on. "The night I had the nightmare, the night I was...yelling or whatever and woke you and Bobby, Yellow Eyes—his real name is Azazel—"

"Oh, that's fucking great, Sam. Glad you're on a first-name basis with the bastard."

Sam ground his teeth and fought another surge of anger. "Do you want to hear this or not?"

"I don't think so."

Sam exhaled a harsh breath, and he couldn't keep the desperation and self-loathing from his voice. "_Good_, because God knows I don't want to fucking tell it!"

Dean was quiet, almost staring a hole in Sam, but he finally relented. "Go ahead."

Sam let out another breath and willed his pulse to slow down and his emotions to cool before continuing. "Azazel or Yellow Eyes or Evil Fucking Bastard—whatever you want me to call him—visited me in a dream. He made me like this," Sam made a sweeping motion of his very able body, "and he showed me what happened the night Mom died, all in glorious 3-D." He met Dean's eyes. "He was there in the nursery that night. Just before Mom—"

"What?"

Sam swallowed. "Yellow Eyes was in my nursery just before Mom died." His entire body tensed, and he suddenly felt sick. "He—he slit his own wrist, and he bled into my mouth. He tainted me with demon blood, Dean. It's—oh, God." He shook his head and fisted his hands, feeling the familiar revulsion. "It's been in me since that night, my whole life. I think maybe it's somehow linked to the visions I was having, all the freaky psychic stuff."

Dean was completely silent, just staring at Sam, but after what seemed like an eternity, he did the opposite of what Sam thought he would do. He put the safety on the gun and lowered it, no longer aiming it.

"You sure you wanna do that? At least, now that you know I'm not all human, you can kill me with a clear conscience."

Dean exhaled through his nose, his mouth a grim line. "If I kill you, Sammy, it'll be because you should have told me all this a lot sooner."

Sam should have been relieved, but all he could feel was the horror of that night and he was finding it hard to breathe or speak. "She tried to save me, Dean. Mom tried to save me. He killed her because she tried to stop him. It's my fault Mom is dead."

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet. "It's not your fault, Sammy. You were six months old. What the hell could you have done?"

"Never been born."

"That's a little dramatic, don't you think?"

"No, I don't. Don't you see? I've been cursed from the get-go. Mom, Dad, Jess—they all died because of me, because they interfered with the demon's plan for me. If I'd never been born, all three of them would still be alive. You would have had a normal life, instead of growing up a warrior and then getting stuck taking care of me."

"Yeah. You're right. You've always been a pain in the ass. But you know what? That's your job as the little brother, Sammy, and it's my job to put up with your crap and watch out for you, and it always will be." He waved a hand. "All this fucked-up shit with Yellow Eyes, though? There's no way it's your fault. What I don't get is why he's so dead-set on you. I mean, if there are others that he did the same thing to, why doesn't he just go after one of them? I mean, wouldn't the SCI have taken you out of the running?"

"Apparently not. Obviously, it's an easy fix for him. He said that I'm his favorite—lucky fucking me—because I'm the only one that grew up hunting. He thinks it made me stronger than the others and honed my skills as a soldier."

Dean snorted.

"Dean, I took the Colt because I'm gonna kill him. He doesn't know I have access to it. All I have to do is shoot him before he even knows what's happening, and if I can do it before he has a chance to change me back, maybe I'll stay like this. I'll be healed."

"It seems a little too simple, don't you think?" Dean shook his head. "Nah, it's too dangerous. We'll go together, and I'll shoot the demon while you distract him."

"No way, dude. Like you've said before, he knows shit. He'll sense you're there and kill you. That's the main reason I didn't say anything to you and Bobby. He threatened to kill both of you if I told you what was going down."

"You still should have told us, Sammy. We could have figured something out together, fought him together."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. I would have been a huge help, me and my fucked up shoulder and my power wheelchair."

Dean's jaw hardened, but he didn't argue.

"I couldn't say anything to you or Bobby. It was too dangerous."

Dean didn't look convinced.

"Please, Dean. Let me go. I want to be the one that kills him, and I have to do it alone."

"Fine. You can be the one to put the bullet in his brain, but there's no way I'm letting you do this alone."

"Dude, have you heard anything I've said? He will _kill_ you—and Bobby. It's too dangerous. It's me he wants. It's safer for all of us if I go alone."

"No fucking way you're doing this alone, Sam. No fucking way."

Sam knew there was no use in arguing right now, not when Dean was like this, like a brick wall. "Where is Bobby, anyway?"

"Out looking for your sorry ass."

"How did you find me?"

"GPS in your phone."

Of course. Sam fought the urge to smack his forehead with his hand. How could he have been so careless?

He was about to try a different tactic to try to convince Dean to stay away, but, in the next instant, he was blindsided with a vision more vicious and violently painful than any he'd had in the time before his injury. He fell to his knees on the sand, holding his head in both hands, trying to keep it from splitting in two like a watermelon sliced open with a machete.

The pain was brutal, and he felt a warm trickle of blood oozing from his nose and couldn't see anything at first but darkness. He could vaguely hear Dean calling to him from somewhere far away, but he couldn't make out the words.

Then, he wasn't on the beach anymore. He saw a sign, a realtor's sign outside an abandoned building advertising commercial warehouse space for lease. The building itself was white, and there was faded lettering on the outside of it that read "Acox Printing and Distributing."

Suddenly, he could see inside the building, and his heart almost stopped. Dean and Bobby were there, pinned against a wall by invisible bonds, agony on their faces and blood coming from their nostrils and mouths. And if that wasn't terrifying and sickening enough, TJ was there, too, pinned to the wall and bleeding right along with them. Sam felt a groan escape from him and could hear Dean again as the vision began to fade.

"Sam! Sammy!"

Sam knew without a doubt this was the "call" the demon had been talking about. Azazel was letting Sam know what would happen if Sam let Dean and Bobby get involved, and he was letting Sam know that he knew about TJ.

Sam's heart dropped to his stomach in terror, knowing that Yellow Eyes might already have TJ. He had to get to that abandoned building _now, _and there was no way he was going to let Dean or Bobby go with him, not after what the demon had shown him in the vision.

He could feel Dean's hands on his face.

"Sammy! What is it? What's happening?"

Sam swallowed, panting. "Vision," he croaked.

Dean wiped his sleeve across Sam's nose, wiping away the blood. "What was it, Sammy?"

"TJ. I think he's got TJ, and he's gonna get you and Bobby, too."

Dean pulled on Sam's arm, helping him to stand up. "All right. Then let's go gank the evil son of a bitch."

Sam pulled free of Dean's grasp, and in the blink of an eye, he swung his right arm, connecting his fist to Dean's jaw, effectively stunning Dean and nearly breaking his own hand in the process.

Dean wasn't out cold, but he was close to it, and he lay on the sand, unmoving.

"Sorry, man," said Sam, feeling a pang of remorse, and that was all he allowed himself. He flexed his hand, wincing at the pain, but he didn't have time for that either.

He turned to leave and looked back one last time, seeing the bruise that was already forming on the side of Dean's face.

Dean was starting to come back to his senses, working his jaw back and forth.

Sam was relieved that the jaw didn't appear to be broken and took off running toward his car. He would have to look up the address of the warehouse using his phone and then get rid of it so that Dean and Bobby couldn't use it to find him again.

Dean was gonna be pissed, but Sam would rather have an alive, furious Dean than the Dean on the brink of death that he'd seen bleeding in his vision.

**XXXXXXXX**

TJ was completely and utterly terrified. She didn't understand what was happening, kept thinking she was in some nightmare that she couldn't wake from. One moment, she'd been sitting on her sofa, working calculus problems, and the next, two burly guys had broken into her apartment, grabbed her, and taken her to this cold, empty warehouse.

When they had arrived, they had shoved her into a huge room, and one of them had waved his hand at her, and she had flown across the room and landed on the wall—and _stayed_ there. She was stuck to it like a fly on flypaper, but there was nothing she could see or feel that would explain why she was absolutely unable to move any of her limbs and was just barely able to move her head a little if she mustered all the strength she could find.

She'd never been more afraid—or enraged—in her entire life. Her heart was pounding, and it was all she could do to keep herself from hyperventilating. "Who the fuck are you, and what are you gonna do to me?" she said to the two dark-haired muscle heads, sounding much braver than she felt.

They looked at each other and smiled, but they didn't answer her. They hadn't said a word to her since they'd abducted her.

She tried again to move, maybe even just a pinky, but it was a futile struggle. Nothing would budge.

Suddenly, a man who looked less threatening compared to the two bruisers walked into the room and said to them, "Bring me Dean and Bobby."

The two men nodded and left without giving TJ a second glance.

TJ hadn't thought it possible, but her fear soared, reaching new heights. Did he mean _her_ friends Dean and Bobby? What did this guy want with them? She swallowed, trying to keep her wits about her. "Who are you? Why are you doin' this?"

The man walked closer to her, a cryptic, weird smile on his face, blue eyes piercing her. "Well, well. Such a sweet, down-home accent. It's the charming little—" He stopped, and his smile grew broader. "It's the charming, _overgrown_ TJ. Too bad you never knew the old Sam, the walking Sam, the _tall_ Sam. You two would have made such a cute couple," he said mockingly. He was close enough to touch her, now, and he ran his fingers over her cheek and jaw. "It's a shame you won't ever know the _new _Sam."

His touch was cold and disgusting, and TJ tried to move her head away from him, but all she could manage to do was move it a fraction of an inch. Her heart was beating so hard now she thought it might come loose and beat right out of her chest. "What in the hell are you talkin' about, you creepy, demented sicko?"

A little voice inside her head was screaming, _Keep your mouth shut, girl,_ but TJ was scared and mad and felt helpless—never a good combination for keeping her sharp tongue where it belonged and out of trouble.

The man gave her another humorless smile, and his eyes suddenly turned a freaky, glowing yellow color.

_Lord, have mercy, _prayed TJ, and this time she wasn't taking the Lord's name in vain. She felt another surge of terror and suddenly wished she'd been more diligent about going to church while she'd been in San Diego like her parents had urged her to do, like maybe if she'd been a better Christian she would be more deserving of God's help right now. _Please,_ _Dear Lord, help me. I promise I'll go to church every Sunday for the rest of my life if you get me out of this._

The strange man didn't seem too upset by her insult, but he was looking at her like she was the fly and he was the spider.

TJ shivered, and a sob escaped her. The show of weakness made her even angrier because she wanted to be brave, didn't want this psycho to know how utterly afraid she really was.

The man rubbed his hands together as if anticipating something exciting. "It's almost showtime! I have to go now, _sweetie pie_," he said, mocking her accent, "but I'll be back. You should have some nice entertainment before the finale. Of course, the last bit might be a little...unpleasant, but you keep praying to that god of yours."

He leered at her and then was suddenly gone, and it wasn't like he had walked out through the door. He had _disappeared_ into thin air. Oh, God, when was she going to wake up? This couldn't be real.

Now that he was gone and there was no one to see, TJ succumbed to her weakness and started crying, thinking about all the people she loved, all the people she would never see again—her parents, her friends, Sam.

Sam. Ah, that one hurt a little deeper than the rest. She thought about last night, what they had shared. It had been wonderful, almost a religious experience for her, a communion. She'd never felt more alive in her life or more beautiful or more like a woman. He was so incredible, and she loved him beyond comprehension. She hadn't said how she felt in so many words, but she hadn't exactly done a great job of hiding it, either, and he had turned away from her. It had hurt so much she almost couldn't breathe, but it was nothing she hadn't already known. He didn't feel that way about her, and he never would.

She knew, though, that he still cared about her deeply as a friend and would miss her if that horrible man killed her. And what if this crazy weirdo was planning to do the same thing to Dean and Bobby that he was planning to do to her? Sam would be alone, and that thought broke her heart. Losing his brother and Bobby would devastate him.

The thought saddened her deeply, but then she had an even more bone-chilling thought that maybe something had happened to Sam, too, that maybe this man had already hurt Sam somehow and was now going after Bobby and Dean—and herself, by association. She didn't understand it all and was scared to death, could feel a fresh batch of hot tears sliding down her cheeks.

Then, as if she had conjured him just by thinking about him, she shifted her eyes up to see Sam coming toward her, his features rock-hard and focused, holding a gun at the ready like some cop from a TV show. She couldn't believe her eyes, and the sight of him took her breath away.

He was _walking._

**XXXXXXXX**

The first thing Sam heard when he entered the main lobby of the old printing warehouse was TJ. He could hear her muted crying echoing from a nearby room, and he knew it was her, could feel her. His gut clenched, and he said a silent apology to her parents for not keeping his promise to take care of her, for not seeing this coming. He was overwhelmed by a feeling of remorse that he had let them down, not to mention TJ, and prayed that it wasn't too late, that he could still keep her from getting hurt.

He pulled the Colt out of the back of his jeans waistband, cocked the hammer, and held it at the ready, following the noise, and entered a large, cavernous room. The smell of ink and paper still lingered there, and there were still a few printing machines and bundles of paper scattered about the room.

He quickly scanned the area, looking for the demon, but the only person in the room was TJ, who was pinned to the dingy white wall like he'd seen in his vision. Her arms were spread out as if she were on an invisible cross, but there was no blood coming from her nose or mouth. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and her eyes widened in shock when she saw Sam walking toward her. "Sam?"

Sam held out a hand, palm up, in a pacifying gesture. "Hang on, Teej. I'm gonna get you out of this. It's gonna be okay."

She swallowed hard and sniffed, chin trembling. "What's happening?"

"I'll explain everything, but right now I need to get you out of here. Are you hurt?"

"No, but I can't—I can't move, Sam. What—how—" She stopped, a choked cry escaping her. "You're _walking_."

"Shh," he said, trying to comfort her and not alert the demon at the same time. "I'll explain everything later. I promise."

She was dressed in her usual ponytail, sweatshirt, and jeans, but her feet were bare, her flip-flops having fallen off to the floor a couple of feet below her.

He hated that she was so afraid—hated that he was so afraid for her—and tried to remain focused on why he was there, tried to keep his cool. He made his way to her, lowered the Colt, and reached out with one hand to see if he could somehow get her unpinned.

"Well, well, tiger. You made it." It was Azazel's voice behind him.

Sam froze and slowly closed his eyes, not wanting TJ to witness what was about to happen. He had hoped he could somehow free her before the demon came, but he should have known better.

This was it, the big showdown. He would have to be fast and act before Azazel knew what was happening. He could feel the iron of the Colt in his hand, felt a sort of heat coming from it like it was a living thing.

"Good boy, Sammy. You even brought me the Colt."

_Fuck. _Any element of surprise he might have had had just flown out the window. He looked up at TJ and met her eyes, wanting desperately to erase the fear and confusion he saw there. He gave her a look of apology and tried to somehow convey reassurance, which was pretty ludicrous in their current situation. Then, he steeled himself and slowly turned around.

Azazel was smiling the maniacal, used-car-salesman smile.

Sam held up the gun and aimed it at the demon.

Azazel showed no fear, and, behind him, two big, muscular guys with the black, inky eyes of demons walked into the room holding Dean and Bobby at gunpoint.

Cold fingers of fear spread through Sam's body like cracks in ice.

Both Bobby and Dean were holding up their hands, palms outward, twin looks of anger and defiance in their eyes. In the next instant, Azazel waved a hand, and they were flung across the room by an invisible force and pinned against the wall next to TJ.

TJ let out a startled yelp, her eyes like saucers.

Bobby and Dean struggled futilely against the demonic bonds that held them.

Sam was furious. "Why did you bring them here? They don't have anything to do with our deal."

"Because I think they cloud your judgment, and it's time to get rid of them." Azazel held out his hand and made a squeezing motion.

TJ, Dean, and Bobby all cried out, excruciating agony on their faces.

"You'll be a better general once they're all dead. No one to distract you."

"You son of a bitch." Sam cocked the hammer on the Colt, a hair's breadth from pulling the trigger.

Azazel was unfazed. "You kill me, you kill the power that's making you whole, that's letting you stand up and walk around."

Sam froze, knowing he should just pull the trigger but unable to, seeing the last remnant of his plan go down the drain. If the demon died, so did his cure.

Azazel jerked his head toward the three people pinned to the wall. "Look at them, Sam."

Just as in Sam's vision, blood now streamed from the noses and mouths of Bobby, Dean, and TJ, and they obviously weren't breathing. Their faces were an ugly, bluish-purple color, as if they were being strangled from the inside out, and they no longer seemed to be conscious.

"It's too late, Sam," said Azazel. "There's no saving them. They'll be dead in," he looked nonchalantly at his watch, "oh, about thirty seconds."

"No! Please, just stop. Please fix them," Sam begged, although he knew it was futile. Azazel had already killed his parents and Jessica. It made sense that the demon would go ahead and kill everyone else Sam loved. His throat and chest tightened painfully, and he could already feel the heart-wrenching grief, the loss.

"Sorry, tiger. No can do. Save yourself, instead," reasoned Azazel. "We're talking about curing you—no more gimpville—and you'll practically be ruling the world. If you kill me with that gun, you'll kill the power that is making you whole. You'll go back to being a cripple for life—and you'll be all alone. Is it really worth that, killing me, now that you have nothing and no one to go back to?"

Sam was on the brink of giving in to that darker side of himself, of giving in to the feelings of anguish and sorrow. Maybe it wasn't possible to fight his destiny.

Azazel's features were pleasant and confident, as if he knew that Sam would do what he wanted. "Don't throw away this chance. You have no reason, now, to refuse me. Think about what it feels like to be able to stand, to walk, to be free of that broken body."

Sam closed his eyes. Azazel was right. How could he go back, especially if the three people he loved the most were dead? What was the point?

But he had to. He couldn't let Dean and his dad down yet again. He had to do what was right. He would kill the demon for them and for Bobby and Jessica and TJ. Azazel would never hurt anyone else again. Ever.

Sam pulled the trigger.

The smug look on Azazel's face gave way to surprise and horror.

The bullet hit Azazel right between his glowing, yellow eyes. There was a spectacular flash of light and fire that seemed to come out of every orifice of Azazel's body, and, finally, he hit the floor in a mass of flesh, charred from the inside out.

And just as the demon's body hit the floor, so did Sam's.

_**TBC**_


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Dean tasted blood in his mouth, lots of it, could feel it oozing out of his nose. He knew he was going to die, and he just wished a reaper would hurry the fuck up and come get him. The inside of his body was like a vacuum, completely and totally devoid of air, as if all his organs were compressing in on themselves and imploding. It was the most horrendous, mind-blowing pain he'd ever felt, and he just wanted it to end.

He was barely cognizant of what was going on between Sam and Yellow Eyes, but he had gotten the gist of it. He, Bobby, and TJ were going to die, no matter what. If Sam killed the demon, he'd just end up paralyzed and alone, so he might as well choose to be cured and lead the demon army.

It was one really shitty choice, and Dean wondered if he would even live to see what his little brother would do. He doubted it. It was like watching a movie until it was almost over and then getting cheated out of the end. He would have laughed at the irony of it, if there had been even a molecule of oxygen left in his body. Such was the life of a Winchester. They always got fucked, apparently even in their last moments on earth.

He couldn't see anything, and now he couldn't hear anything, but he started to picture things from his past and realized it was true. Your life really did flash before your eyes when you were about to die. He saw his mom, felt her hug him, felt his dad lift him high in the air as he used to do when Dean was a child. He saw Sammy the day their parents brought him home from the hospital, all wrinkled and pink and small, no hint of the Sasquatch he would later become.

Dean saw himself teasing Sam in the way brothers do, but also taking care of him, doing a lot of the things their mom should have been there to do and that their dad wasn't emotionally capable of doing. He saw himself training Sam how to fight, then trying to teach the geeky, teenage version of Sam how to talk to girls, and then he saw Sam leave for college.

It had been a pleasant montage up to that point, but then Dean remembered the pain of that moment when Sam walked out the door, how he wanted more than anything for his dad and Sam to change their minds, to reconcile and fucking get along for once. God, he'd missed his little brother so much those years Sam had been at Stanford, but if he'd known what would happen once Sam rejoined him in the hunt, he never would have shown up that fateful night and asked Sam to help him find their dad.

Of course, Yellow Eyes still would have fucked things up for Sam, still would have killed Jessica, and Sam would have joined the hunt anyway, probably would have found Dean instead of the other way around—and still would have gotten hurt.

Maybe Sam had been right. Maybe shit just happened. Maybe Dean should just let it go, stop agonizing over it. Of course, it was a little late. Acceptance of the way things were wouldn't do him or Sam much good now, since he was going to be dead in about another second.

However, the next second didn't bring death. It brought the sound of a gunshot and then air.

Dean felt himself fall in a boneless heap to the floor, and he drew in a heaving, wheezing breath, trying to suck as much precious air from the room as he could into his lungs. It was sheer bliss, being able to breathe, and he would never, ever take it for granted again.

He didn't know how long he sat there, just breathing, but he finally began to realize that all the pain was gone, that he could move, that he was _fine_, and there were things happening around him.

He saw Sam on the floor, lying on his back, completely still and pale, eyes open and eerily staring at the ceiling like a corpse.

The thought jolted Dean into action, and he ran over to his brother and knelt down beside him.

At first, Sam had no reaction, not even a blink, but then he shifted his eyes to Dean and stared.

"Sam! Are you all right?"

Sam stared at him for a moment longer, and then he blinked and said, "Dean?"

"Yeah. In the flesh, dude."

Sam was still pale, and his eyes were a little disturbing, like bottomless pits, his features devoid of emotion. Finally, though, he seemed to come to himself. "Are you—are you okay?"

"Peachy. You?"

Sam swallowed hard and slowly closed his eyes. After a moment, he said, "I'm fine."

Dean frowned in concern, not believing him, but was distracted by a commotion near the door.

Bobby was walking with grim purpose toward Azazel's two demon henchmen, pointing the Colt at them, and Dean realized Sam must have dropped it at some point. Thank God Bobby had grabbed it and not one of the demons.

The two men ran toward the door and disappeared through it, apparently not realizing Sam had used the last bullet in the Colt on Azazel.

Dean smiled, thinking what a badass Bobby was for chasing the two demons with an empty weapon, and wished they had a devil's trap to keep the bastards from escaping. They'd have to leave that fight for another day, though. All that mattered now was that everyone was alive and okay.

He turned his attention back to Sam in time to see him struggling to sit up, and he helped him.

Sam saw TJ, and his brow furrowed. "TJ, are you okay?"

TJ was huddled in on herself next to the wall, shaking.

Dean's instinct was to go to her, but he knew that was Sam's job. He looked at Sam expectantly.

Sam just sat there, looking at TJ, his only sign of emotion the tick in his jaw. His legs were straight in front of him, not moving, and the denim of his jeans looked loose, made Sam's legs appear thin.

Dean remembered Sam's struggle to sit up, and then he remembered the choice the demon had given Sam. A tidal wave of emotion hit him. His chest tightened like a fist, and he thought he might die for the second time that day, realizing in that moment what had happened, the ramifications of the choice his brother had made. Sam couldn't go to TJ.

The back of Dean's throat stung, and moisture welled in his eyes, spilling onto his cheeks, but he didn't give a damn. "Ah, Sammy."

Anguish crossed Sam's features.

Dean drew Sam into a fierce embrace. He was proud of his brother for doing the right thing, but, at the same time, he knew what it all meant. He knew what Sam's hopes had been, and he knew what Sammy had given up.

He felt Sam grip him and exhale a harsh breath, and Dean held him for a few minutes before finally letting go.

Sam hadn't let a single tear fall, but it was obvious he was fighting it, was trembling a little with the effort.

"Sam..."

Sam glanced over at the roasted demon lying on the floor, and his mouth tightened. "It's how it had to be."

Dean realized in that moment how strong Sam was, and he was in awe of his little brother and felt bad for ever doubting him, for thinking the demon could ever get to him.

Sam seemed to steel himself and looked back to Dean. "I thought you were dead," he said quietly. There was a pause, and then he said, "I'm sorry I hit you."

Dean's eyes blurred again, and he swallowed hard. He moved his jaw back and forth, feeling the soreness, trying to compose himself, but his voice still came out gravelly. "You do that again, and I'll kick your ass into next week. I've got a bruise as big as Alaska."

Sam made a half-assed effort to smile and nodded, and then his eyes shifted to TJ. She was still shaking, and it was obvious Sam wanted to go to her.

Dean was about to offer to help Sam get to her, but Bobby got to her first and helped her to stand. She looked like she was in shock, and who in the hell could blame her?

Sam's eyes were still on her, but she wouldn't look at him, wouldn't really look at anybody.

Bobby had his arm around her shoulders and hugged her close. "You hurt anywhere, kiddo? You ain't still in pain, are you?"

She absently rubbed the area where she'd had the surgery and shook her head no.

"It's gonna be all right," Bobby reassured her in his gruff voice and looked at Sam and Dean. "Anyone have any idea why the three of us are still alive?"

The question was met with an uncomfortable silence.

Finally, Sam spoke. "I think that killing the demon killed his power—all of it. Whatever he was using to make me walk was the same thing he was using to kill you. Once he was dead, we all reverted back to the way we were."

The realization of what that meant for Sam dawned on Bobby's face. "Sam—"

"Let's just go," Sam said tightly.

"What about the body?" asked Dean.

Bobby still looked stricken but didn't say anything else to Sam. He looked at Dean. "I'll make some calls. Somebody will come and clean it up."

It seemed sort of anticlimactic, after they'd spent their whole lives searching for the Yellow-Eyed Demon, obsessed with killing him. They had lost so much because of him, so many loved ones, and now he was dead, but the demon's death had been over too quickly. He should have suffered the way he'd made them suffer, should have felt the same grief that he had caused them, but it wasn't possible to punish something that had no soul, that was pure evil.

Sam had finally killed the bastard, had avenged the death of their parents and Jessica, but his hopes of being cured, of walking again, had died with the demon.

The victory seemed...hollow.

**XXXXXXXX**

The ride to the apartment had, so far, been completely silent. Dean was driving the car that Sam had stolen, and the only noise that could be heard was the vibrating hum of the engine. The car was a crappy, small, old Nissan, and Sam was sure the owner was wondering why in the hell anyone would want to steal it, but at least it ran. It had gotten him to the beach where he'd felt the sand between his toes for the last time.

Memories of those hours when he'd been whole haunted him now, tumbling over and over in his mind, and he tried to carve the memories into his soul, tried to remember all the pleasant sensations, the sense of movement. All he could feel now was nothing. He felt like a floating torso again, half a human—and he didn't want to forget.

He wondered if time would eventually force him to forget. Maybe the fact that he couldn't feel the car seat beneath him would become a natural thing, like he'd never been any other way. It hadn't felt natural or right in the year and three months since his injury, but maybe in a lifetime it would.

He thought with cruel irony that it wasn't entirely true that he didn't feel anything. He was sitting in the front passenger seat instead of in the back with TJ because the backseat was too compact. He needed more room because his legs had started to spasm like crazy, and the pain was back with a vengeance, as if his legs were aflame with an icy fire, adding insult to injury. He inhaled deeply and exhaled, trying to breathe through it.

Dean glanced at him with a raised brow. "You okay?"

"Fine."

Dean stared at him for another second and then turned back to the road, not saying anything else.

Sam was glad. He didn't have the energy to argue with Dean, and there was nothing Dean could do, anyway, until they got back to the apartment and Sam could take his meds.

Sam glanced back at TJ, but she still wouldn't look at him.

Bobby was back there with her, and he had his arm around her in a paternal way. Her head was on his shoulder, her eyes staring at something in the vicinity of the gearshift.

Sam would give anything to be the one holding her right now. He wanted to comfort her, explain things to her, but the empty look on her face scared him. He wondered what she was thinking, if she was afraid of him.

He felt a stab of guilt for what had happened. He should have known she wasn't safe. If Azazel had killed Jessica, then he certainly wouldn't have had any qualms about hurting TJ. Sam had almost gotten her killed, and the thought made him nauseous.

He felt a particularly painful wave of the burning in his legs and winced, taking in another deep breath.

When the pain subsided a little, his thoughts went back to the demon. He should feel some sort of vindication, some sort of satisfaction for killing it, but, instead, he felt a numbness, as though his emotions were on hold. It was a way of protecting himself, a delay of what he knew was to come.

He felt like he had when he'd first been told his spinal cord had been severed and there was no hope, that he would never walk again. He was in denial, couldn't believe it was over and his only chance at a cure was dead.

Then, as if the numbness had been a dam keeping his emotions at bay, it broke, and the despair and desolation flooded in.

He felt his throat narrow and his eyes sting, and he pinched the bridge of his nose to try to push back the torrent that was threatening to come. He couldn't cry in front of them. He had to man up, especially for TJ.

He didn't want to go through it again, didn't want to get sucked back into that black chasm of hopelessness and despondency, but it was pretty damn hard to climb out of it when he knew what lay ahead of him and that it was how things were going to be, that he wouldn't wake up one morning and suddenly feel his toes and everything would be back to normal. He had a disability. That was his new normal.

He told himself that it was worth a lifetime of dealing with the paraplegia knowing the demon was dead, that he'd done the right thing, especially since those he loved were safe. He hadn't been able to believe it, at first, when Dean came up beside him. He'd thought for sure that Dean, Bobby, and TJ were dead, and he'd wished he were dead right along with them.

It stood to reason, though, that, if the power that made him able to walk died with the demon, then so would the power that was killing them. It was the only explanation he could think of for why they were alive and seemed to be unscathed—at least physically—and nothing else really mattered.

When they reached the apartment, Bobby took TJ inside while Dean went to get Sam's wheelchair from the bedroom and brought it out to the car.

Sam's heart sank to the pit of his stomach when he saw it.

Dean's mouth was in a tight, grim line as he opened the passenger door, but at least he showed no pity.

Sam leaned his head back against the headrest of his seat, eyes tightly shut and jaw clenching. _This is how it's gonna be_, he thought. _Forever._

Dean cleared his throat. "You ready, Sammy?"

Sam took a deep breath, exhaled, and then nodded.

When they were inside the apartment, Dean helped Sam transfer to the sofa, and Bobby got him a glass of water and the meds.

Sam's legs were still hurting and spasming, and he tried to get his mind off of it, hoping the medication would kick in soon. He looked up to see TJ standing by the dining table.

She hadn't made a sound and was hugging herself protectively, staring at his jerking legs as if mesmerized by them, that vacant expression still on her face.

"TJ?" Sam said quietly.

She didn't move at first, but then she tore her gaze from his legs and met his eyes.

"Come sit down with me." He gave a slight, apologetic smile and glanced at his legs. "They're not as scary as they look."

She stared at him for a minute, still not saying anything.

Sam saw Bobby and Dean look at each other, clearly not knowing exactly how to handle this. TJ was definitely not herself, and none of them really knew what to do with a shell-shocked TJ.

Her hair had fallen mostly out of its ponytail by now, and she made a futile effort to tuck the stray strands behind her ears. Then, her mouth tightened, and she pulled the elastic holder out of her hair and threw it angrily to the floor. Her hair fell down around her shoulders, and she looked at Sam, then, eyes blazing.

It seemed she had left the freak-out stage and was moving on to extremely pissed off. Her freckles still gave her an impish quality, though, and all Sam could think about in that moment was how awesome she looked, like some enraged, giant pixie. He could feel his blood start to stir, despite everything that had happened, despite his exhaustion and the pain in his legs.

In full-on Kentucky mode, she said, "You fellas wanna tell me what in the hell happened today?" There was nothing pixieish about her tone. It was hard and demanding.

Dean cleared his throat. "Uh, Bobby, I think you and I need to ditch that stolen car."

Bobby lifted his cap and quickly scratched his head. "Yeah. We've already had it for too long. The sooner we get rid of it, the better."

Dean shot Sam a look.

Sam responded with one that said, _Cowards._

Dean waggled his brows, unrepentant.

TJ skewered them all with her eyes, head cocked in an attitude of impatience, clearly wanting an explanation.

After Dean and Bobby left, the only sound that could be heard was Sam's legs jiggling against the fake leather of the sofa.

TJ crossed her arms again and arched a brow, indicating his legs. "Are they hurtin'?"

His first instinct was to lie and tell her no, but then he thought honesty might buy him some sympathy and help to cool her anger. "Yeah. They're hurting."

"Good."

So much for the sympathy card. "Look, TJ—"

"Who in the hell was that man, and how did he make us stick to that wall, and why did he want to kill us, and why were you up walking around, and why can't you walk now, and why in the hell did you wait so damn long to shoot him?" Her face reddened, and her chin began to tremble, and when she spoke again, her voice was thick and shaky. "Because what he was doing to us fuckin' _hurt_, Sam." She lifted her hand and subconsciously covered the area of her scar. "I thought..." A tear rolled down her cheek, and she angrily wiped it away. "We almost _died_!"

He felt a surge of remorse and frowned, hating more than anything that she had gone through that, unable to stand the thought of her in pain. "I know, Teej, and I'm so sorry."

"Don't give me those eyes. I want some answers, and I want 'em right now. What in the hell did you mean when you said somethin' about a deal, about his powers?"

"TJ, come sit with me."

She stared at him defiantly.

Sam sighed. "I'm not gonna tell you anything until you come sit down. It's a long story."

She stood there for a minute, looking like she was going to refuse, but then reason seemed to win out and she reluctantly came over to the sofa and sat down on the other end from him, as far away as she could get, arms stubbornly crossed.

He was slightly amused, but he wasn't going to let her get away with sitting so far from him. He slid himself toward the middle of the sofa, pulled his legs up onto it—no small feat, considering how spastic and stiff they still were—and then lowered himself until his head was on TJ's lap. He looked into her eyes, challenging, and said, "I need to lie down. Sometimes it helps with the spasticity."

"Oh, please," she said with irritation.

He couldn't hold in his grin. "I'm serious."

She poked her cheek with her tongue, mouth quirking. "Whatever." Then she mumbled something about Sasquatch heads weighing a ton.

Sam knew she'd gotten that from Dean and rolled his eyes.

"Comfy?" she asked sarcastically.

He reached up and pulled on her arm, unfolding it, and then took her hand, resting it on his chest near his heart, and covered it protectively with his own hand. "I'm comfy now."

She jerked it away and crossed her arms again. "Start talkin'."

He grabbed her hand again, grasping it more firmly this time.

"Holding my hand doesn't get you off the hook."

"I know, but it makes me feel better."

Her features softened a fraction. "You're still in hot water."

"I know."

"Well?"

He exhaled and frowned. "I don't really know where to begin."

"I don't think 'once upon a time' will work for this one."

He snorted. "No. More like the beginning of _Rosemary's Baby_ or _The Exorcist_."

Her brow creased.

He really didn't know where to start and was quiet for a second, absently noting that the pain in his legs and the spasms had both started to taper off since he'd lain down. Or maybe it was since he'd taken TJ's hand in his. The softness and warmth of her skin was soothing, and he sighed a little with the pleasure of it. "Dean, my dad, and I—we used to be hunters. Bobby still is one."

"I take it you don't mean huntin' deer and 'coons."

He smiled wryly. "Uh, no."

"So what does the hunting have to do with what happened today?"

He exhaled. "You're pretty religious, right? I mean, you grew up going to church regularly?"

She huffed. "Yeah. Until I went to college. I mean, I'm no Bible thumper, and I started slacking off when I came to San Diego, but you can bet your ass after what happened today I'm fixin' to start going every Sunday."

"What does '_fixin' to'_ mean?"

"Sam!" she exclaimed in exasperation, giving him a warning stare.

He grinned, enjoying teasing her and delaying what he didn't want to talk about. He rubbed the back of her hand, no longer keeping a firm hold on it since the tension in the air had lessened and he sensed she would leave it there, where it belonged. "Well, all that stuff in the Bible about demons? It's true."

She frowned like she always did when she was trying to understand something.

"That thing that hurt you today, it wasn't a man. It was a demon, and not just your regular, garden-variety demon."

Her eyebrows went up. "There's a garden variety?"

"Yeah. There's different levels, I guess. The demon you saw today was what my dad always called the Yellow-Eyed Demon, for obvious reasons. I think he was the highest level of evil, the devil's right-hand man. His real name is Azazel."

Sam felt her shiver, and he squeezed her hand. "When I was six months old, that same demon—Azazel—" He stopped abruptly, rethinking his words, not ready to tell TJ about the demon blood. Besides, now that Azazel was dead, maybe whatever he'd tainted Sam with had died, too. Sam hoped to God it was true.

He cleared his throat and began again. "My mom found him in my nursery, hovering over my crib, and she tried to stop him." He searched TJ's face, wondering if he should tell her the horrific details about the fire.

She met his eyes. "You can tell me, Sam. I can take it."

In that moment, he knew that she could, that she was strong, and he admired her for it.

She began to idly brush her fingers through his hair with her other hand.

It was calming, and he continued. "He—he killed her. He pinned her to the ceiling, kind of like he did with you on the wall today, and then set it on fire."

She drew in a sharp breath of air and gave him a look of compassion. "Oh, my God, Sam. I'm so sorry."

He paused for a moment. He'd never known his mom, but her death still wasn't easy to talk about. "As my dad was picking me up from my crib, he saw the demon. He handed me to Dean and told Dean to get out of the house. Dean was only four years old, but his childhood pretty much ended that night. He's been looking out for me ever since.

"I guess my dad probably tried to do something to save my mom, but it was too late. My nursery had become an inferno. After that night, my dad became obsessed with finding the thing that killed my mom, and he became a hunter. There's actually a lot of hunters out there, a sort of hidden counterculture. Dean and I got sucked into it, too, and we've been hunters our whole lives.

"Our dad was an ex-Marine, and he trained us to be soldiers. He dragged us around from one hunt to the next, tracking Yellow Eyes and killing anything evil that needed killing along the way. There's other things besides demons—lots of things. We hunted ghosts, monsters, shape-shifters, werewolves—just about everything you've ever heard about in folklore except for maybe unicorns."

She huffed, and then she was quiet and pensive. Finally, she said softly, "That's how you got hurt, isn't it—hunting?"

"Yeah. It was a poltergeist."

Her eyes grew large. "As in, 'They're heeere', as in the kind that lives in the TV?"

He held in a smile. He knew she wasn't teasing for once, but only TJ could turn something so devastating into something sort of amusing. "Kind of like that, yeah." He grew more sober and added, "This poltergeist liked to throw knives."

The true implication of his words sank in, and big, watery tears brimmed in her eyes. "Oh, Sam."

The way she'd said his name, the emotion it held, was profound. It wasn't pity. It was love, and he loved her, too. He'd never been more sure or certain of anything in his life—or more destroyed by it.

He couldn't—he wouldn't—let her waste her life with him. He'd had hope before that maybe he could trick Azazel into curing him, but now that hope was gone. He would deal with his disability because he had to, but TJ didn't, and he would not be a burden to her, even if she thought that's what she wanted.

He levered himself into a sitting position and then scooted his body and maneuvered his legs until he was sitting next to her, putting his arm around her shoulders. His heart felt heavy. "Hey. It's okay."

She lay her head on his shoulder and wiped a tear from her cheek. "That deal that the demon was talking about, it had to do with you walking, didn't it? He was gonna cure you."

"Yeah."

"I don't understand. You were already walking, though. You were already cured."

"That was sort of a trial period, sort of like a test drive."

"He wanted you to see what you'd been missing and what you had to gain?"

Sam's throat felt tight, and he swallowed. "Yeah."

Head still on his shoulder, she placed her hand again over his heart. "Why, Sam? What did he want with you?"

He sighed. "I don't understand it all myself, but part of it had to do with the fact that I grew up as a hunter. He thought it made me stronger than—" He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose, stalling, not wanting to go into it all but knowing he didn't have a choice. TJ had a right to know everything. "There were others like me, possible candidates to lead a demon army that would help Azazel free Lucifer, the devil, from hell. Apparently, I was the frontrunner because I was a hunter, until the poltergeist threw a kink in his plans."

"But then your injury became leverage, something he could bargain with, the promise of a cure?"

"Yeah."

"So, I still don't understand what happened today. Why did he kidnap me? Why did he want to kill Dean and Bobby and me?"

"He knew that I...cared about all of you and that if you three were gone, I wouldn't have a reason to refuse him." He remembered what it felt like, thinking he'd lost them, and he felt a surge of emotion. When he spoke, his voice sounded dense and strained. "I—I almost gave in, TJ. I thought there was no way to save the three of you, that you were as good as dead. I hesitated to shoot Azazel because he said that I would go back to being paralyzed if I killed him, and I didn't think I could deal with that alone."

"But in the end, you still shot him anyway."

He could see that moment vividly in his mind, knowing the life he was choosing, thinking that everyone he loved was already dead. _It was the right thing to do, _he reminded himself. _The right thing._ _The right thing. _"It was the right thing to do," he finally said out loud.

She leaned her head back and gazed up at him for a long time.

He had a good view of the freckles dusting the bridge of her nose and wanted to brush kisses over them and make his way down to her mouth.

She looked down, breaking the spell, giving him a view of long, dark lashes fanning over her cheeks instead. "I know what you gave up, Sam—or, at least, I have a pretty good idea. When I was stuck to that wall, I couldn't move anything, no matter how hard I tried. My body wouldn't—or couldn't—obey my brain. It was..." She trailed off, swallowing, and looked up at him. "Well, let's just say it's a good thing I didn't have to make the choice that you did. I might be doin' the tango with Lucifer right about now."

He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her. "No, you wouldn't. You would have done the same thing."

She shook her head but didn't argue, and, after a minute, she changed the subject. "I don't get it. How did—why are Dean, Bobby and I all right? It's like nothing happened to us."

"I think that whatever power healed me was the same power that was killing the three of you. When I shot the demon, it shut the power off, and we reverted back to the way we'd been."

She seemed to mull that over for a second, and then she moved on to another question. "Why you_?_ I mean, why not Dean, for that matter? He grew up as a hunter, too."

He shrugged. "I don't know. Like I said, I don't understand it all myself. I'm sure there's more to the story than Azazel told me, but I guess now I'll never know. I _hope_ I never know." He couldn't keep the harshness from his voice. "I'm so fucking done with demons—with all of it." He gave a derisive snort. "That's at least one good thing about my disability. It gets me out of hunting."

"You didn't like it, the hunting?"

"No. I hated it. All I wanted to do was go to college and live a normal life."

"But you quit college and, I assume, went back to hunting. Why?"

"The demon. He killed my girlfriend Jessica the exact same way he killed my mom. After that, I wanted revenge." He ground his teeth. "I played right into Azazel's hands. He said an apple-pie life would have made me too soft, that he wanted me to hunt so I would hone my skills as a soldier, as a fighter."

She rubbed her fingers idly over his chest.

He could feel it through the cotton fabric of his shirt, and, although he didn't think it was intentional on her part, it reminded him of what they'd shared last night and made his skin come alive.

He still had one arm around her shoulders, but he gently covered her hand with his other hand, stopping the motion that was very quickly going to drive him insane.

She looked up at him, brow creased a little, but she didn't say anything.

He wanted to kiss her so badly, but he couldn't. He never should have let things go so far last night. He would be tortured by those memories every time he was with her—and when he wasn't.

"You must have loved her a lot."

"What?"

"Jessica. You must have loved her a lot."

He didn't answer for a second, not missing the irony that Jessica had just been the furthest thing from his mind. He kept his tone neutral. "Yeah, I did. I was going to ask her to marry me."

"I'm sorry, Sam. No one should have to deal with losing someone like that."

"No."

TJ was silent after that, and several uncomfortable minutes went by.

Sam wondered what she was thinking. He'd just told her a lot of things that were hard to believe, not to mention pretty damn scary, and it made him nervous that she wasn't saying anything. "TJ? I...I need to know what you're thinking. I know what I've told you is pretty freaky, and, then, with everything that happened today... Are you..." He cleared his throat. "Are you afraid, you know, of me?"

"Afraid of you?" She sounded incredulous. She lifted her head up off his shoulder and sat up straighter, a fierce, determined look on her face. "You listen to me, Sam Winchester. What you did today was—the sacrifice you made..." She looked away, her throat working, obviously trying to remain in control of her emotions. When she regained her composure, she looked at him again with that same ferocity. "What you did today was—God, it goes way beyond heroic. There are no words for it. And that doesn't include how you must have risked your life on a regular basis when you were huntin'. I could never be afraid of you. I am in awe of you, and I feel safe with you."

"You do?"

"Of course. Do you realize how badass you are? I mean, you not only saved Dean, Bobby, and me, but you pretty much saved the _whole, entire world_ from evil."

He stared at her, not knowing what to say. He didn't really feel like much of a badass. That was more Dean's thing.

She shifted, swinging a leg over his lap and straddling him like she'd done last night. Then, she took his face in her hands. "You're the bravest, most amazing guy I've ever known."

His body reacted to her, pulse quickening and heat flushing through him. His voice was husky when he tried to speak. "TJ—"

She gently pressed her mouth onto his, cutting off his protest, gliding her tongue over his lips.

He couldn't resist, of course, and he opened his mouth to her, let her tongue mingle with his. It was intoxicating, the taste of her, the warmth and moisture, the way her tongue sometimes tickled the roof of his mouth. He could hear blood rushing through his ears, could feel his breathing accelerate.

God, how he wanted her, but he couldn't do it. He had a lot to deal with, a lot to figure out now that there was no doubt his disability was permanent. Azazel had been his only real chance at a cure, and he knew it. Of course, there was still the very slim, miniscule chance that he or Bobby might find some kind of supernatural miracle, but after already researching it for a year and finding nothing, Sam's hope was nonexistent. He was done wasting his time on it.

Gently, he pushed on TJ's shoulders, breaking their kiss, and he felt an almost physical pain when they separated. "TJ, please. Don't."

She rested her forehead on his. When she spoke, her voice was low, and her accent came through, smooth as silk. "You make me crazy, Sam. You make me do things I wouldn't normally do."

The sound of her vibrated through him.

She sat back on her heels, a rueful look on her face. "I don't usually attack guys like this. I swear."

He gave her a small smile, forcing himself to take normal breaths, trying to get his heart rate to slow down. "It's okay. It's not that I don't...like it, but we shouldn't. It's not—I don't want to ruin our friendship."

Her brow creased, and she moved off of his lap and sat several inches away from him.

He felt cold without her to warm him and immediately wanted her back, wanted her body close to him, touching him.

She lay her head back against the sofa, staring at the inert screen of the TV in front of them for what seemed like forever.

Finally, Sam couldn't stand the quiet any longer. "Teej?"

She looked at him, then, regret touching her features.

He swallowed, getting a bad feeling.

"I can't be your friend anymore, Sam—at least, not right now."

"Why?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.

She gave him a bittersweet smile, unshed tears welling in her eyes. "Because I'm in love with you, in case you haven't figured it out, yet."

He just sat there.

She huffed a self-deprecating laugh and looked up at the ceiling. "I'm so in love with you, I don't know if I'm comin' or goin'. What we did last night—God. I know I said no strings, but I'm weaker than I thought. Maybe having my insides run through the wringer by a demon and almost dying—again—has put things into perspective." She looked into his eyes. "Now that I've had a taste of you, I can't go back to the way things were. I don't want to waste my time pretending anymore."

"TJ, I love you, too, but—"

"But not in the same way," she finished for him. "Yeah, I know. You love me like a sister."

"After what happened last night, I wouldn't exactly say I think of you as a sister."

Her mouth quirked. "You know what I mean."

_Don't do this to her,_ said a voice inside his head, but the logical part of him said it was better this way. "I'm sorry, TJ. I don't want to lose your friendship. I _need_ you."

"No, you don't. You're strong, Sam. What you did today, what you've been dealing with—don't you see? You're more man than any able-bodied guy I know. You don't _need_ anyone."

"TJ, don't do this, not after everything we've been through. It can still work."

She shook her head. "Maybe, in time, we can go back to being just friends, but I need some space. I can barely breathe sometimes when I'm around you. I can't just go back to the way things were. It was hard enough trying not to show you how I felt when things were still platonic. I've been through this before, Sam." She looked almost apologetic. "Although, I've never loved anyone the way I love you."

Her last words were sweeter and, at the same time, hurt him more than anything anyone had ever said to him.

"Now that the cat's out of the bag, it'll be awkward and difficult for both of us. It'll be torture for me, not being able to—" She paused and swallowed. "Well, you know. You'll feel bad and guilty because you don't care about me in the same way, and I'll eventually resent you. It won't end well, so let's just finish it now and save ourselves a lot of heartbreak down the road."

It was too late. His heart was already breaking.

She reached over and took his hand. "Promise me, Sam, that you won't become a hermit again. Promise me that you'll _live_ your life, that you'll find someone you can be in love with. _Please_ don't think that no one will want you because of your disability. It's not true." A tear slipped out of her eye, and she wiped it away and gave him a crooked smile. "I'm living proof."

His throat burned, felt like it was closing up, and his eyes blurred with moisture, threatening to spill over, but he didn't care. "TJ—"

"Promise me."

He shook his head, clenching his eyes shut. How could he promise that, when it was the very reason he was lying to her in the first place? There was no way he'd ever try to find someone else. He didn't think he'd ever be able to tell anyone else the things he'd told TJ, all the embarrassing things that went with his disability, let alone be intimate sexually. If he could do that, he'd be with TJ.

God, he hadn't thought it would come to this. He'd stupidly thought they could go back to the status quo, but she was right. He knew exactly how she felt because it would be torture to be around her, too, and deny himself.

Of course, he wasn't really denying himself. The useless part of his body would do that for him. Yes, last night had been incredible in some ways, better than anything he'd ever imagined, but the fact remained that he hadn't been able to follow through because of his "plumbing issues." No woman deserved to be stuck with that.

TJ loved him, and her feelings were clouding her judgment. Sex wasn't everything in a relationship, but it was a big part of it, and he wouldn't let her make that sacrifice.

He'd let things go too far last night, but he'd foolishly hoped that it would go differently with Yellow Eyes, that he'd either be cured or dead once the final showdown was over—not that he'd have to face her like he was now, a paraplegic for life.

He hadn't really thought through the consequences of being intimate with her, how much it would hurt both of them if he had to reject her. He'd had a fleeting thought that it might be awkward to go back to just being friends, but he hadn't really given it any credence, hadn't wanted to scrutinize it too closely, hadn't really thought he'd have to deal with it.

"Promise me, Sam."

He shook his head again. "I can't."

"You _can_. You just killed a horrible, vile demon and saved the world, for God's sake. You can do anything."

"I was walking when I killed it, TJ. I was who I used to be."

"You're still that person, but you're even stronger, now, because of everything you've been through. Please, Sam, don't give up. Promise me you'll try to find happiness."

"I can't. Not without you."

Her voice was determined and deliberate. "You. Can."

"TJ, please, don't do this," he pleaded again. "You, Dean, and Bobby, you're my family—all of you."

She tilted her head to one side, a sort of wistful expression on her face. "Dean and Bobby are your family. I'm just a friend, Sam, and, maybe, in time, things will change, and we can hang out together again. It's not like I'm saying goodbye forever."

"Then why does it feel like you are?"

"Like I said, I just need some space, but, in the meantime, I want you to go out and have fun, make new friends."

"No one can replace you."

There was a rattle of keys in the front door lock, and they both looked toward it.

Bobby and Dean walked in, both their expressions turning wary when they saw TJ and Sam, obvioulsy sensing that things were not going well.

TJ stood and walked over to them. "I need one of you to take me home, please."

Dean and Bobby shared a look, and, after a pause, Bobby said, "I'll take you, kiddo, if you're sure you want to be alone."

She nodded and then folded her arms and hunched her shoulders, as if she felt cold.

"Who's gonna take care of you, TJ?" Sam asked quietly.

"I will." Her eyes were still sad, but her mouth curved upward with a hint of triumph. "I'm done hurting myself, Sam, and I'm done being hurt by others, demon or human." Then she turned to Bobby and indicated she was ready to go.

Sam shut his eyes—his whole world collapsing—and opened them in time to see his happiness walk out the door.

_**TBC**_


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

It was a Saturday morning, five days after Sam had killed the demon, and Bobby and Dean were sitting at the dinette table, finishing up bacon and eggs and drinking coffee.

Sam was awake. Bobby had gotten a hollow, "I'm fine, Bobby," when he'd checked on him earlier, but Sam hadn't come out to get coffee or breakfast, and it was unlikely that he would. He'd barely been out of his room since the day he'd killed Azazel and TJ had left.

Dean was unusually quiet, and Bobby knew that he was worried about his brother. Sam seemed to be falling back into the moroseness and depression that he'd been in after his injury. He was doing the basics to keep himself alive, but, on the brief forays he made out of his room to get food, it was obvious that he hadn't shaved, his hair looked unkempt, and there was a deep emptiness and darkness in his eyes that was painful to see. Sam hadn't even been that bad after he'd hurt his shoulder.

"You tried havin' a talk with your brother?" asked Bobby.

Dean snorted. "As much as I could talking to a door. You know how he is. I get an 'I'm fine,' and that's the end of it."

Bobby sighed. "We gotta get him to snap out of it. He was better, seemed to be coming to terms with things, despite the crap that was going on with the demon. Now, it's like it was just yesterday that he got hurt. He's starting all over again."

"He thought the demon was his ticket out of the wheelchair, Bobby. I think he's given up, now, thinks there's no hope."

"Well, there ain't much, I'll give him that."

"We can't stop looking, Bobby."

"Did I say I was gonna stop? I'll look for a cure 'til I'm dead, but, in the meantime, I don't wanna see him stop living. He's too young to be holed up in his room, lettin' life pass him by."

Dean's jaw hardened. "Did TJ say anything to you when you took her home the other day?"

"Not a word."

"Well, obviously, something's not right. She hasn't been over since Sam ganked Yellow Eyes, and I'll bet you that Sam hasn't talked to her on the phone, either. You think it's because she's too freaked out?"

"Who could blame her if she was?"

"I can. Sam needs her, and I thought she was tougher than that. How could she just abandon him like she has? Surely he explained everything to her. Surely she knows how hard this is for him, what he gave up."

Bobby felt the need to defend TJ. "We don't know that she's abandoned him, Dean. We don't know what went on between them, and she looked just as upset as Sam did that day I took her home. For all we know, Sam could have pushed her away the same way he's pushing us away."

Dean took a sip of his coffee and was quiet for a moment. "I've tried to call her twice, Bobby, and she didn't call me back, just sent me a text saying she needed some time. What the hell does that mean?"

"I don't know, but I do know that the kid's in love with Sam, so I don't think she'd stay away from him unless she had a reason."

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "God, Bobby. He's gotta be hurtin' bad right now. I know how much he had riding on tricking the demon into curing him, how much he wanted it. To top it all off, he had that time where he was up walking around, had a taste of what he'd been missing. That's gotta make going back a thousand times harder, you know?"

Bobby felt his gut clench, felt a stab of hatred for what the demon had put Sam through.

"I think, like you said," Dean went on, "he was accepting things, but the whole friggin' demon deal screwed it all up. I know one thing. I'm not gonna let him give up, and I'm not gonna let him turn into the bitter, pissed-off jerk he was right after his SCI. If he doesn't come out of that room, soon..." Dean trailed off, and his eyes widened.

Bobby glanced in the direction Dean was looking and was surprised to see Sam wheeling into the living room. His expression was devoid of emotion, but he was fully dressed in jeans and a shirt, and he had shaved and combed his hair.

He rolled up near the table and eyed Dean's coffee mug. "Any left?"

Dean had recovered from his surprise and nodded. "I'll get you a cup."

"I got it," Sam said, and pushed himself into the kitchen.

Dean arched a brow at Bobby but didn't say anything.

Bobby gave him a half-shrug in return and then called to Sam, "You want some bacon and eggs, kid?"

"No, thanks, Bobby."

"You sure? It won't take but a sec to make you some."

Sam came out of the kitchen with a coffee mug sitting on a wooden tray in his lap while he used his hands to push his wheels. TJ had gotten the tray for him so that cooking would be easier, since Sam had helped her make a lot of her meals after she'd gotten out of the hospital. He could stir things, even hot things, without having to reach up to the counter, and the tray protected his lap from hot liquids and food that might spill or slosh out. "I'll make some toast, later, if I get hungry," he said, pulling up to his spot at the table.

Bobby nodded and let it go, knowing Sam wouldn't want to be mothered, although he wished Sam would eat something more substantial.

Sam put his coffee mug on the table and set the tray in the empty spot, out of the way.

Dean didn't say anything, and neither did Bobby. Bobby was afraid to, didn't want to make a big deal of the fact that Sam had decided to join them, afraid it might somehow scare him off, and he wondered how much of their conversation Sam had heard. After a couple of minutes, though, the silence was starting to draw out too long and feel uncomfortable.

Sam was staring at his mug and seemed absorbed in thought.

Bobby looked at Dean, who quirked his mouth as if to say, _Awkward_.

Finally, Dean cleared his throat and looked as if he was about to speak.

Sam beat him to it. He looked at Bobby and said, "So, uh, I think it's time you got back to your own life, Bobby."

Bobby didn't react. He'd been thinking the same thing, lately, but given Sam's relapse into depression, he'd been hesitant to leave.

Sam's brow wrinkled, his expression sincere. "I mean, I really appreciate everything you've done. You've gone way beyond what we ever asked of you, but I can do everything on my own again. I don't see a reason for you to hang around if you need to go."

Bobby knew Sam had been doing his transfers without help using the board, but he still worried that Sam might take on too much before his shoulder was fully healed. "You gonna keep up with your therapy and not overdo it?"

Sam gave him the ghost of a smile. "Yeah. I can do the home exercises on my own, now, and I can take the bus for my sessions with Karen."

Dean quirked a brow at the mention of Sam riding the bus.

Sam saw Dean's reaction and went on in an impassive tone. "I've gotta get used to it, and riding the bus is good for the environment, right?

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Maybe I'll eventually save enough money to buy a car of my own, or maybe not. Maybe I'll get to where I don't mind the bus."

Bobby scratched his head. Sam was saying all the right things, but something didn't seem quite right. It was almost like he was reciting a passage from a book—a book on how to live with a disability. There was no enthusiasm behind this new demeanor of his, but at least it was a step in the right direction.

Dean looked a little skeptical. "Sam, we can get the Impala tricked out. You—"

"No. I don't want you to do anything to the Impala."

"It's not a big deal," Dean argued.

Sam shook his head. "No."

"And just how are you gonna save up for a car?"

Sam looked at him, jaw set with determination. "Get a job."

Dean sat back in his chair.

Sam cleared his throat. "I heard you mention to Bobby the other day that Phil and Katherine were looking for a bookkeeper, and I was wondering if that job was still open."

A flash of emotion crossed Dean's face, and he hesitated just a fraction before saying, "Yeah. It's still open. I can set up an interview for you, if you want."

"Yeah," said Sam quietly. "Thanks."

Dean nodded and took a sip of his coffee in an admirable effort to keep things casual, like the things Sam was saying weren't that big of a deal.

Sam waited for a second and then said, "Uh, it'd have to be pretty much the same hours you work—you know, in the evenings—because I'm gonna go back to school in the fall."

Dean choked on the sip of coffee he'd taken, his effort to remain cool falling by the wayside.

Bobby whacked him on the back. "You okay, son?"

Dean nodded, still sputtering.

Sam ignored Dean's reaction. "I'm gonna talk to someone in admissions at SDSU on Monday morning. I'm hoping a lot of my credits will transfer from Stanford. I think I can get student loans and maybe a grant, since, you know," his jaw tensed, "I have a permanent disability."

Dean got over his choking and stared at Sam for a moment. Finally, he said, "You wanna tell us what brought all this on, all this sudden acceptance of everything? You went from Dicky Downer to the poster child for SCI."

Bobby gave Dean a warning look, pissed that he was being critical of Sam's effort.

Dean ignored it. "What gives, Sam?"

Sam's jaw clenched tighter, and there was a flash of despair that crossed his features. Then the bland, emotionless mask dropped back into place. "I have a disability, Dean. I have to learn to live with it because it's—it's not gonna go away. I either have to deal or die, right?"

Dean's features softened. "Sammy—"

"Don't, Dean," said Sam in a deliberate, hard tone, stark desolation in his eyes. "Don't tell me not to give up hope, that you and Bobby are still looking for a cure. It doesn't help when you say that."

Bobby felt sadness wash through him, hating that Sam was still in so much emotional pain.

Dean looked as heartbroken as Bobby felt.

Sam's features were cold and stony, and he pulled away from the table and wheeled himself toward his room without saying another word.

Dean put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands.

**XXXXXXXX**

TJ was nervous as she walked up to the main entrance of Shorty's, carrying a birthday gift in her hands. She hadn't seen Dean in over a month, since the day they had both almost died at the hands of the freaky, evil demon and she'd said good-bye to Sam.

The thought of Sam caused the usual ache and longing that she felt every time his name came up. He hadn't tried to contact her since she'd left, and she didn't know whether to be noble and tell herself it was for the best or to be really pissed off. He could've at least made _some _effort.

Of course, she hadn't done anything to contact him, either, but she couldn't, not after she'd made such a big deal about needing space. Her brain knew that was true, that it was the only way to get over him. She just wished her heart would get the message.

What she was doing today, dropping off his gift and inviting him to her graduation and the party afterward, didn't really count as making contact with him. She had to invite Dean and Heather—they were her good friends—and she couldn't invite them without inviting Sam. So, she might as well drop off Sam's birthday gift while she was at it, since today was actually his birthday.

No, this wasn't a pathetic attempt to have some sort of nearness to him through Dean, some sort of news about how he was doing. Not at all. Inviting Sam to her party was the polite thing to do. Plus, she knew her parents would want to see him again, since she hadn't had the heart to tell them that she and Sam didn't see each other anymore, so she was really doing this for them.

Yeah. Right.

The gift was something that she hadn't been able to resist getting him. She figured the yoga sessions didn't really count, since he hadn't wanted them—not that she was sure he'd want the gift she'd brought today, either.

She sighed. She'd already lost her heart to him; she couldn't lose her self-respect, too. Of course, throwing herself at him like a totally wanton slut hadn't exactly been the way to boost her self-esteem, especially since she'd known that it wouldn't mean the same thing to him as it did to her. She had no one to blame but herself for the disaster that had resulted.

She had to show him that she was over it, that, yeah, she'd made a fool of herself and told him how she felt and ruined their friendship, but what else was new? She could still be a classy girl and invite him to her party.

Being without Sam made her miserable, but she would show everyone how strong she was. She would pick up the pieces and move on. She didn't have a choice. It was the same story, different day—always the bridesmaid, never the bride, always everyone's best buddy—only her feelings were more intense and utterly devastating this time around. The knowledge that Sam wasn't in love with her, that she could never be with him, was so painful sometimes she felt like her insides were being squished by the demon again.

Sometimes she had moments of weakness, and she thought that maybe she should try to be friends with him after all because maybe that was better than nothing. Yeah. Maybe she should just try.

Or, it would really suck, driving herself crazy trying not to touch him in a decidedly _unfriendly_ way and going insane with jealousy once he finally realized how awesome he was and started going out with other girls again.

So, she came back to where she always ended up when she had this conversation with herself at least ten times a day. It was over, and she wished him the best. She truly did...because she loved him and always would.

She had intentionally gone to Shorty's early on a Monday evening because she knew it wouldn't be busy and she would have a chance to talk to Dean. When she walked in, just as she'd thought, there were only a few tables occupied, and no one was sitting at the bar. It was just past five, and Dean and Heather's shifts had just started.

TJ sat at the bar on a stool and set Sam's gift on the stool next to her. Gina, another waitress that worked at Shorty's who had been filling in the void left by TJ, was across the room and gave her a smile. They didn't know each other that well, so TJ just waved politely.

Dean was out of sight, probably in the back getting something, but Heather had seen her come in, and as soon as she finished setting drinks in front of her customers, she came over and gave TJ a big hug.

"Nelly," she said, grinning, "you're looking good, girl."

"Thank you," said TJ, returning the smile, for once just accepting what Heather said without thinking Heather was either just being polite or must need glasses, as TJ used to think when anyone paid her a compliment. God, had she really been that down on herself?

Maybe all that time she'd been spending with her shrink was helping after all. Maybe this time around, she was actually getting better. The thought lightened her mood a bit.

Heather grew more serious, her light-blue eyes trained on TJ. "So, how are you doing?"

"I'm...good. I think I'm getting things under control, putting some things into perspective."

Heather looked at her pensively, giving a faint nod.

"I mean, don't get me wrong. It's not like I'm cured or anything. I still struggle with," TJ cleared her throat, feeling a little embarrassed, "my disorder every day, but, um, the new counselor I've been going to is—well, she's better than others I've had."

Heather nodded again, compassion on her face.

TJ felt squirmy and fidgeted a little on her stool.

Heather seemed to sense her discomfort and changed the subject. "School going okay?"

"Yeah. I didn't really get that far behind. It hasn't been that hard to catch up. Of course, now finals are coming up."

Heather scrunched up her perfectly-shaped nose. "Ooh, fun," she said in a tone that indicated she thought it was anything but. College hadn't really been her thing, but she was a smart girl. She was going to school to be a paramedic, which was no walk in the park.

"So, what about you? Did you get Dean in the sack, yet?" TJ teased.

Heather blushed prettily and averted her eyes.

TJ's eyes widened. "Holy cow! You did!"

"Shh!" admonished Heather, looking around and laughing shyly.

A few of the customers had looked up at TJ's outburst but went back to their conversations.

"Start talkin'," TJ demanded with mock sternness.

Heather smiled the smile of someone who's in love.

TJ felt a twinge of jealousy.

"It actually kind of started when you were still in the hospital. He asked me to dinner—finally—and things went from there. We've gotten pretty close. He's sweet, and he's such a gentleman."

TJ raised her brows. "Are we talking about Dean _Winchester, _the cockiest, biggest flirt on the west coast?"

Heather smiled again. "I know it's maybe hard to believe, but that's not who he really is. Deep down, he's a good guy."

"I know," TJ said softly. She wondered if Sam had finally had a talk with Dean, and her belly clenched the way it always did whenever she thought of Sam. It was annoying, and she wondered if it would ever go away. "That's...great, Heather. I'm happy for you."

Heather looked at her a moment. "So, what happened with you and Sam?"

"Subtle, Heather. Don't beat around the bush or anything."

She shrugged. "I'm just curious. Everyone is. You guys were inseparable for a while there."

TJ hesitated. She didn't want to get into it. It was still too painful, too raw.

"Dean's worried about him. Sam won't say what happened, but I think he's been pretty bummed."

So maybe Sam cared a little after all? Of course, she'd always known he loved her as a friend, so it didn't mean anything that he would be sad things had ended. Besides, he could be bummed for a lot of reasons that would have nothing to do with her—like, realizing whatever hope he had of curing his paralysis was pretty much gone. She suddenly felt glum. "It's a long story."

Just then, Dean's voice came from behind TJ. "What's a long story?"

TJ turned around. "Hey, Dean."

He wasn't smiling. In fact, he was sort of hostile. "What are you doing here?" That was all he said by way of greeting, after everything they'd been through, and his words were clipped.

TJ felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny, and she knew immediately that he was ticked at her for some reason.

She looked around just to make sure the restaurant hadn't somehow gotten busy without her noticing, but no one new had come in. Looking back to Dean, she said, "Can we talk for a minute?"

He raised a questioning brow at Heather.

"Go ahead. Gina and I can handle it."

Dean jerked his head, indicating the kitchen.

TJ followed him through the swinging doors, thinking he would go into the back office, but he kept walking until they ended up in the alley in the back of the restaurant.

The weather was nice out, balmy and sunny. It was a lot quieter in the deserted alley away from the busy kitchen, which was why Dean must have preferred it—not to mention there was less of a chance of someone eavesdropping. The only drawback was the smell of garbage wafting from a huge dumpster that was nearby.

There were two steps that led down from the back door, and Dean sat down on the top one. "You wanna tell me what the hell happened with you and my brother?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

He gave her a look that said he had but it hadn't done much good.

She huffed a humorless laugh. "He won't talk to you, but you're pissed at _me_? Maybe you should get all the facts, first."

"What happened? How could you just leave him like that, especially since you know everything that happened?"

She stared at him for a moment, feeling a surge of indignation. Just what the hell kind of person did he think she was? She was about to ask him that very question, but he spoke before she could.

"Was it—was it _because _of what happened? Was it because you were so freaked out?"

She sat down next to him. "Wow. Sam really hasn't told you anything, has he?"

He exhaled. "Sam...no, he hasn't." Dean let his guard down for a moment, and there was worry and frustration in his tone.

She knew then that Dean wasn't really mad at her, that he was just concerned about Sam. "It doesn't have anything to do with the demon or any of that scary stuff, Dean."

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, one brow arched. "Then what happened? I thought you guys were really close."

"That was the problem." Her throat suddenly felt tight. "You know that I—you know how I felt about him."

"Felt? You don't feel that way anymore?"

That made her angry. "Of course I do. You think I'm that fickle? I can't just switch off my emotions whenever I feel like it." She stared up at the blue sky and gave a harsh laugh. "I wish to God I could."

"So what's the problem? You're happier when you're with him. He's happier when he's with you. Why aren't you still friends?"

She rolled her eyes. "Dean, I'm 'onna spell this out for you because I know, as a totally hot guy, you've probably never encountered this problem before."

He frowned.

She spoke slowly and deliberately. "I'm in love with Sam. He's _not_ in love with me. It makes things awkward, puts me at a disadvantage."

"So what changed? It was that way before, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Dean. Thank you for pointing that out," she said dryly.

He shrugged. "Well?"

She sighed. "I thought I could live with that and still be friends with him, but...something happened, something that changed things between us—and I'm not talkin' about everything that happened with the demon."

He looked at her intenly for a second and then said, "Oh."

She could tell by his reaction that he had gotten the gist of what she'd said, that she meant that she and Sam had gone beyond the boundaries of friendship, and she felt her face grow warm. "I can't—I can't pretend anymore that nothing happened, that I'm not attracted to him, that I just think of him as a friend."

He cleared his throat. "So...it's not because of his disability, then?"

She was irritated that he would ask that, even though he was getting at something much more personal and intimate, something that neither of them wanted to talk about outright. "No. Of course not."

He exhaled, and some of the tension left his body, like he was relieved.

She blew a few stray strands of hair out of her face that had come loose from her ponytail. "I've been through this before, had feelings for someone that weren't returned. It's the story of my life. I'm not the kind of girl guys fall in love with. I'm the kind they want to be buddies with, maybe even the occasional friends-with-benefits thing but nothing serious, the kind of girl they want advice from when they want to ask some other girl out." She locked her eyes on him, making sure she had his attention. "It fuckin' hurts, Dean, and I'm not doin' it again. I'm not gonna follow Sam around like some pathetic puppy starved for attention. Do you understand?"

He met her gaze for a moment and then looked at the brick wall across the alley in front of them, his arms resting on his knees. "Yeah. I get it. But you're wrong, TJ. You're not—"

"Just save it, okay? I know you're gonna try to make me feel better, tell me what a great girl I am, so thanks, but I'm okay with it. I know I'll find somebody someday. I'm not giving up."

He slanted a look at her. "You're just giving up on Sam?"

That stung, but no matter how much she didn't want it to be, it was true. "Yeah."

He hung his head and nodded.

"I hope he's well," she went on, ignoring the tingle of tears. "I wish him all the best, and I want more than anything for him to get his life back on track. I know he will eventually. He's strong."

Dean leaned back and rubbed his hands idly on his thighs. "He, uh—he's been better in some ways, like maybe he's coming to terms with things. He got a job."

"He did? Doing what?"

"He's been working in the back office here, doing the books for Phil and Katherine."

She was surprised. "That seems a little too boring for him."

"Yeah. Probably so, but it was his idea. It's not like he intends to make a career of it. He's going back to school. In fact, he's enrolled in some classes at SDSU in the fall."

Her pulse quickened, and she grinned like an idiot, feeling a surge of utter delight. She clapped her hands together. "Dean, that's—oh, my God! That's...wonderful!"

He smiled back, looking amused by her fervent reaction. "Yeah."

She cleared her throat and tried to scale back her emotion, staring at Dean's boots, feeling kind of foolish for being so exuberant. "Sorry. That was dorky."

He was still smiling. "No, it wasn't."

They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a minute, and then Dean said quietly, "You're lookin' good, TJ."

She knew he meant it, and she was touched. "Thanks."

"How are you?" The question was simple but loaded with meaning. _How's the bulimia? How are you dealing? _

Her answer was equally simple, and she hoped it held as much meaning. "I'm good."

He gave a small nod. "You're not coming back, are you—to work, I mean?" It was a statement, not a question.

She gave him a rueful look. "No. I just now got cleared by my doctor to come back, and I thought I might, but I can't..." She let out a deep sigh. "I can't work here, you know, now that _he_ works here. It would be too weird. Besides, it would only be for three more weeks, anyway."

He rested his elbows on his knees, listening.

"I've still got that job as a teaching assistant lined up for this summer. My parents are gonna float me until that starts. I'll probably go back to Kentucky for the couple of weeks in between graduation and when the summer session starts."

"Well, I'd say we're gonna miss you, but things have been a lot quieter around here since you've been gone. Haven't had one single complaint."

She was miffed at first but then saw his cocky grin. "Shut up," she said, smiling and nudging his shoulder. "You know you'll miss me."

He sobered. "Yeah, we will," and he suddenly drew her into a hug.

She was startled at his show of affection.

He gave her a final squeeze and withdrew, standing up and brushing the dirt off the back of his jeans. "I should get back."

"Yeah." TJ stood and brushed her jeans, too. Then she remembered why she had come there in the first place. "Oh, Dean? I wanted to invite you, Heather, and Sam to my graduation and the party afterward. I mean, you guys don't have to go to commencement, but I just wanted you to know you're invited. I'm sure it'll be kind of boring. Gretchen's sort of organizing the party. It's for me and a few of our other friends who are graduating this semester."

"Oh, sure. We wouldn't miss it."

"I think we're gonna have it at the clubhouse of my apartment complex, but that's not for sure. The date is Saturday, May 24th, right after commencement. I'll let y'all know all the details once we get the place nailed down, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up."

"Why don't you have it here?"

"Too expensive."

"I'm sure I can get Phil and Katherine to give you guys a good deal."

She rolled her eyes. "They hate me, Dean."

Again, he gave her the cocky grin. "But they love me."

She snorted a laugh and followed him inside. As they approached the door to the back office, she saw that it was open, and her heart sped up, wondering if Sam was there, remembering the gift she'd left on the bar stool.

The office was empty.

Dean kept his features impassive as they made their way out into the restaurant. He took his usual place behind the bar, and she went around to the stools and saw the gift still sitting there. She set it on the bar where Dean could see.

He smirked. "Aw, TJ, you shouldn't have. My birthday's not until January."

She rolled her eyes. "You know who it's for." She felt sheepish. "I'm pathetic, right?"

"No," Dean said quietly. He picked up a white towel and started wiping down the bar. "He should be here any minute. He's running late because he had a therapy appointment. We usually work the same hours so he can ride with me, but he's taking the bus today."

The bus? Sam?

"You should wait for him," said Dean, like it was no big deal.

She shook her head, willing herself not to get weepy, despite the annoying lump in her throat and the stinging in her eyes. She slid the gift toward Dean.

He frowned at it.

"You give it to him, okay?"

"He would wanna see you, TJ."

She shook her head again, and this time she couldn't keep a tear from falling. She looked away from Dean and wiped it away, hating herself for wishing Sam was there and, at the same time, terrified because he could be there any minute. "I have to go. Tell him happy birthday."

"Tell him yourself."

She started walking toward the entrance.

"TJ, wait," called Dean.

She didn't listen. It had been a mistake to come there.

**XXXXXXXX**

Dean glanced sideways at Sam. His little brother was where he belonged, shotgun in the Impala. It was late, and Sam's face was in shadows, occasionally illuminated by streetlights as they passed by. It reminded Dean of old times, even if they were just coming home from work at Shorty's instead of hunting down some evil fugly.

"How was therapy?"

"Fine."

Dean fought the urge to roll his eyes. Monosyllables were pretty much all he got out of Sam these days.

In some ways, despite his broodiness, Sam's disposition was a lot better. The rage and self-pity that had been there right after his injury first happened was gone.

Dean would have been relieved, except that Sam was like a shell of himself. It was like he was going through the motions of living because it was what he was supposed to do, but there was a big piece of him missing—like his heart. He was still depressed, but he tried to hide it under a veneer of robotic activity because it was the right thing to do, because it was what was expected.

Dean hadn't been fooled. He knew his brother was hurting.

Before Dean had talked with TJ today, he'd been pissed at her. He hadn't understood how she could just suddenly cut his brother off like she had.

He had thought at first that maybe it had all just been too much for her to take in but that she'd eventually come around; after a month, however, she'd still kept her distance. He had been disappointed in her, had thought she was stronger than that.

After his talk with her, though, he understood, and he couldn't blame her, although, for Sam's sake, he wished she'd change her mind. Maybe it wasn't up to her, though. Maybe it was Sam that needed the attitude adjustment.

One thing was for sure, Dean was done walking on eggshells around Sam. Sam could take care of himself, and things were gonna be different this time around.

Dean hadn't given up trying to find a cure for Sam. He would never give up, and neither would Bobby, but, in the meantime, they had to get on with their lives. It was obvious Sam was trying to do that, and Dean was going to do everything in his power to help him. He owed his brother that.

He glanced at Sam again.

Sam was staring at the road in front of them, his head resting against the headrest.

Dean fiddled with the radio, but there was nothing good on. He wasn't really in the mood for it anyway, so he turned it off. He wanted to talk.

He huffed. Between constantly trying to get Sam to open up, not to mention hanging out with Heather, he was getting too emo, too touchy-feely. He needed to go kill a baddie just to feel more like himself.

Sam had apparently noticed the huff because he glanced briefly at Dean; but, of course, he didn't say anything.

"So, TJ brought you a birthday present, huh?"

Sam lifted his head off the headrest, his shoulders stiffening.

"What was it?"

A sort of noncommittal grunt came from Sam's direction. "Shoes."

"Huh." Dean smiled inwardly, knowing what TJ must have given him.

Sam looked out the passenger window.

"You know, I bitched her out for being such a shitty friend and abandoning you."

Sam gave him a look of incredulous outrage. "You what? She's not a shitty friend. She brought me a birthday present, for Christ's sake!"

Finally, a decent reaction instead of monosyllables. "Yeah, but, I mean, where's she been for the past month? You friggin' saved the world, got rid of the devil's bitch, and TJ's too freaked out to get over it? What? Is she too scared now to hang out with you or something? I thought she was stronger than that. I thought you guys were close."

Sam's voice was even, but there was emotion simmering just below the surface. "That's not what happened. You're wrong about her."

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to think, Sam? I mean, for weeks, you two were practically joined at the hip, and then the whole demon thing goes down, and, poof, no more TJ."

Sam swallowed hard and looked ahead out the windshield. "It's not that simple. Things got complicated."

"Yeah. I know."

That got Sam's attention.

Dean laughed a little. "Yeah. You know TJ. She set me straight. Turns out the girl's completely in love with you. I don't know what she sees in your sorry ass, but it just goes to show, there's someone for everyone."

Sam was quiet for a moment, and then he said, "She wants more than I can give her."

"Because you don't love her back?"

Silence.

"Hey, I understand. I mean, she's a cool girl, but she's no Jessica. Jessica was hot, way out of your league, but TJ? Well, let's just be honest. She's not that pretty. You can't make yourself be attracted to her. If the physical spark's not there, it's just not there. I don't blame you for not—"

"Shut up, Dean." Sam looked as if he couldn't believe what Dean was saying. "TJ's just as beautiful as Jessica was, in her own way."

"Yeah, but, still. Let's face it. TJ's got a _great_ personality, but she's no head-turner. She's the kind of girl guys wanna be buddies with, maybe even the occasional friends-with-benefits thing but nothing serious, the kind of girl they want advice from when they want to ask some other girl out." He looked at Sam, gauging his reaction, and went in for the kill. "She's not the kind of girl a guy falls in love with."

Sam looked furious. "_I _love her, you fucking dick!"

Dean had known that all along, but he held in his satisfaction that Sam had admitted it and pretended to be shocked. "What? You love her?" His words hovered in the air for a second, and then his tone was hard. "Then what's the damn problem?"

Sam's eyes were shooting daggers, but then he seemed to deflate, and he let his head fall against the seat again. "Big deal. You got me to admit I love her. It doesn't matter."

"Really? I think it would matter to TJ, because that last part that I said, all that stuff about her just being the buddy type, about her not being the kind of girl a guy falls in love with? Those were her words, dude, not mine."

Sam's brow furrowed like he was in pain, and he turned his head and, again, looked out the passenger window.

They pulled into the parking lot of their complex and parked in the disabled spot in front of their apartment. It used to be a stab in Dean's gut every time they parked there, but now it wasn't a big deal. He hardly gave it a second thought.

Dean cut off the engine and turned to Sam. "You wanna tell me why the fact that you love a girl who loves you back doesn't matter?"

Sam took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. "She deserves better."

A few weeks ago, that would have cut Dean to the core, but now it just pissed him off. "You are such a damn drama queen. What is this, _'Days of Our Lives'_? It's like some cheesy soap opera. The noble gimp sacrifices himself, not letting the woman he loves waste her life with him because he's no longer perfect."

Sam huffed and shook his head. "You don't understand."

"I understand that you never were perfect, Sam. Hell, you've always pretty much been a freak. But guess what? TJ knows everything about you—about the hunting, Yellow Eyes, how we grew up—and she still wants you."

"I didn't tell her, you know, about the blood...the demon blood."

"Ah, hell, Sam. You could tell her that Lucifer was your dad and your mom had four heads, and she'd just shrug it off. The girl is head over heels for you, man. Is the blood the reason you're letting her think you don't love her?"

"No."

"Then what?"

Sam didn't answer.

"Well, it can't be about your disability because—news flash—she's never really known you any other way."

Sam still didn't say anything, but his shoulders stiffened again.

Dean sighed. He so did not want to bring up Sam's sexual issues—it was just as painful for him as it was for Sam—but maybe Sam needed to talk about it. Dean decided to risk pissing him off. "Is it—does it have to do with," he cleared his throat, "sex?"

Sam was quiet for a long time, like he was going to ignore the question, but then he said in a flat tone, "We...experimented."

A knot formed in Dean's stomach. "So, uh, what happened?"

Sam didn't answer.

Dean closed his eyes for a second, imagining what it must have been like for Sam. "You didn't—you couldn't..." He cleared his throat again. "The little soldier wouldn't stand at attention?"

Sam exhaled through his nose, mouth in a tight line. "No. I mean, yeah. I mean, it's not—that's never been the problem, exactly."

Dean sat there, not sure he understood. He'd read the literature, knew how every injury could produce different levels of dysfunction, but he'd always assumed the worst for Sam, since Sam's injury was so definitive, so complete. It was one of the most devastating things about Sam's injury, and he'd never been able to bring himself to talk about it. "What do you mean that's never been the problem? I thought, you know..."

Sam stared straight ahead. "I can't feel it, but I can still get an erection. I just can't...control it."

Dean was stunned, and then he stared at Sam with disbelief. "Let me get this straight. You've always been able to get a boner, from the get-go?"

Sam colored. "Yeah."

"For Christ's sake, Sammy. That's two-thirds of the battle. Why the fuck did I deny myself for a year?"

Sam snorted. "Hell if I know. That's on you, not me."

"Dude, it was a show of solidarity."

"That's not what I needed. I needed you to just be my brother."

That hurt, and Dean was quiet for a moment. Then he let it go, knowing Sam was probably right, and pretended to be indignant. "You gotta be kiddin' me. I was constantly on the verge of a volcanic eruption, driving myself insane being around Heather day in and day out, and it was all for nothing? The whole time, little Sammy's been ready to rodeo?"

Sam shot him a strange look. "God, I swear you and TJ were twins separated at birth."

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

He let that go, too, not in the mood to try to decipher the freaky thoughts rolling around in Sam's brain. "I don't believe it. I felt so sorry for you. And so guilty. I wasted a year of my life!" He looked down at his crotch. "I'm so sorry, little man. I'll make it up to you."

Sam rolled his eyes.

Dean grew serious again. "I don't see where the problem is."

"The fact that I can..." Sam hung his head and exhaled a frustrated breath, running a hand roughly through his hair. "It doesn't really mean anything, Dean. You're not hearing me. I can't—I can't feel it, and I can't control it." His voice sounded suddenly quiet. "It didn't last."

"So."

Sam's brows went up. "What do you mean, 'So'? It doesn't _last_, Dean. I couldn't—I couldn't follow through. I had to use another way to...satisfy her."

Dean arched his brows. "Well, did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Smoke a giant bong," said Dean sarcastically. "Did you satisfy her?"

"I—I think so, but it wasn't the same."

"Well, did she like it?"

Sam's jaw clenched. "She said she did."

"But you don't believe her?"

"I...don't know."

"What was it like for _you_? Did you enjoy it?"

Sam paused, and an unidentifiable emotion crossed his features. "Yeah. It was, uh, different, but...it was good."

"Then you're a moron, Sam. Just go to a friggin' doctor and get something to help you. There's all kinds of stuff out there. Besides, even you're not that much of a prude. Dippin' your pen in the ink is not the only way to please a girl, and it sounds like TJ didn't have a problem with 'the other way.'"

Sam didn't reply, just sat there looking kind of bitchy.

He was silent for so long that Dean thought their conversation was over and put his hand on the door handle, getting ready to open the door.

"It's not just about...endurance," said Sam, stopping him. "There's other things to think about."

Dean leaned back again in his seat, letting his hand drop. "Like what?"

"I still can't..." Sam's jaw hardened. "What if she wants to have kids someday?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Huh. I'm sorry. I didn't realize we were talking marriage. I mean, you might wanna take her on a date, first, before you start worrying about kids."

Sam's brow furrowed. "Who knows what things might lead to, Dean? I'm just trying to avoid a bunch of heartache down the road—for both of us—when she realizes she's made a mistake."

Dean's voice was laced with irony. "Right. Because you're both so happy now. Why ruin it?"

Sam looked away.

"So, does this really have anything to do with your disability, or are you just being a chicken shit? Because no relationship comes with a guarantee. I don't care if you use a wheelchair or not."

Sam's expression was bitter. "No. But the wheelchair sure as hell doesn't help the odds any."

"Look, do you like it when people make decisions for you, do things to help you, when you really don't need it?"

Silence.

"No," Dean answered for him. "It fuckin' pisses you off. Believe me, I know. So what gives you the right to do that to TJ? You think you're doing what's best for her, but all you're doing is causing both of you unnecessary misery. Jeez, Sam. Just go get some Vee-agra and get over it."

"Viagra."

"What?"

"You said Vee-agra. It's Viagra."

Dean couldn't believe how friggin' anal Sam was sometimes. "Who gives a crap how you say it, Sammy? Just get some so you can _get you some._"

"Fuck off, Dean. You don't understand."

Dean felt a surge of anger and exasperation. "No, you fuck off, Sam. What I understand is that you still have a lot to offer a girl, and everyone can see that but you."

Sam's jaw cemented, and he stared stonily in front of him, retreating back into robot mode.

Dean threw up his hands in frustration. Sam was so stubborn he'd argue with a stop sign.

_**TBC**_


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Sam tried to ignore the gnawing pain in his legs that he'd felt all morning and pushed himself away from the bus stop, letting his wheels ghost through his hands as he coasted down a hill. Of course, he'd have to push himself up the hill on his way back, but it wasn't that steep, and his shoulder was almost back to a hundred percent. The incline wouldn't be a problem.

He was now transferring on his own without the board, since he'd gotten a grudging approval from Karen that it was okay. He was building strength and progressing faster than most people with his type of shoulder injury, but he'd learned that elderly people were usually the ones who ended up with shoulder fractures like his, and Karen had attributed his quicker-than-average recovery to his youth and good health.

His recovery didn't seem so quick to him. It seemed like it had taken forever, and he knew that if he hadn't had Bobby to help him, things might not have gone so well.

Bobby had left three weeks ago, and Sam would never forget Bobby's parting words. He'd put a hand on Sam's good shoulder and given it an affectionate squeeze, moisture welling in his eyes.

Sam couldn't remember Bobby ever showing that much emotion, and it made him feel a little emotional himself.

"Son, I want you to know that I'm proud of you."

Sam didn't know what to say as he looked up at the man who'd been like a father to him.

Bobby's expression grew even more intense. "Your daddy would be proud of you, too, and don't you ever forget that. You hear me?"

Sam nodded. "Yes, sir."

Then, Bobby had bent down and embraced Sam in a quick, hardy goodbye. When he stood, he narrowed his eyes first at Sam and then Dean, who was holding the door open. "If you idjits ever shut me out of your lives again, I'll have both your hides. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Dean and Sam both said at the same time.

Sam missed Bobby, and he would never be able to thank him enough for all that he'd done. Bobby had seen him through some of his darkest days—along with TJ, of course.

He felt an instant, sharp punch to his gut at the thought of TJ. She had been there at Shorty's yesterday, left him a birthday gift, a rectangular box that she'd wrapped with the comics section of the newspaper and topped with a huge red bow. It had made him smile, and he'd opened it in the privacy of the back office.

She'd gotten him black Converse sneakers with a note that said she'd checked it out and other people with spasticity liked them, that they usually didn't cause a rub, that Dean had explained to her why he wore the suburban-dad shoes.

Sam hadn't tried them on. Instead, he'd stuck them in the large bottom drawer of his desk, on top of old file folders that he never used. He couldn't wear the shoes. He'd be reminded of her every time he looked at them.

He had to lock her away in that hidden place inside of himself, tried not to think about her, but she had barged her way into his thoughts yesterday like a steamroller, making the misery of her absence from his life stark and raw again.

He'd woken up this morning missing TJ, feeling the darkness oppressing him worse than usual, dreading having to do his bowel routine and check his body for pressure sores and deal with all the other crap he had to put up with. He detested the thought of having to live another day as a paraplegic, sick of the struggle, thinking with a disturbing detachment that maybe he should have his worthless legs amputated because at least it would make his body lighter and make transfers easier.

He was fighting to keep the depression at bay, but it was hard, even though he was still on the antidepressant. It was useless, and he was weaning himself off of it, going against his doctor's recommendation that he stay on it or switch to another brand. His pain was too deep, and no amount of medication was going to help it. Nothing would—not pretending that he could accept his paralysis, not pretending to move on with his life, not pretending he would be fine without TJ.

He had to find another way to dig out of the grave it felt like he woke up in every day, and he was growing desperate. He'd told Dean and Bobby he had to either deal or die, and, lately, dying had seemed like a more logical choice.

Instead, he'd dragged himself out of bed, done everything he had to do like the poster child for SCI that Dean had said he was, and then broke down in despair, crying like a baby, knowing none of it would ever end, that he would have to do it every day for the rest of his life, and no amount of trying to better himself by getting a job or going to school or riding the fucking bus was going to change that. At least the pretending had made Dean and Bobby feel better, had given them hope that he was moving on with his life. It was the least he could do for them after all they'd done for him.

He wanted more than anything to find a way to climb out of the hole, to come up for air from the smothering blackness. He was at his breaking point.

It was then that he'd called the yoga place and made an appointment for a private session with Amber, who just happened to have an opening today. He felt like a complete idiot, knowing it wasn't going to help, but he was desperate, and beggars couldn't be choosy. He had no other options.

As he pushed himself up to the door of the studio, he tried not to think about the day TJ had brought him here and how he'd been too stubborn to listen to her, how he'd been so scornful of the whole yoga thing. It was ironic that, now, here he was, hoping that this would be some kind of miracle, that it would somehow bring him relief from the relentless pain, both physical and emotional. He thought cynically that at least he wasn't paying for it, so if it was as fruitless as he expected it to be, at least he hadn't lost anything but time.

Next to the door was one of those silver buttons with a disabled symbol, so he pushed it, and when the door opened, he rolled through. The lobby area was small with a low reception desk as the main focus, centered in the room. The place smelled of fresh paint and new furniture and had a modern feel to it. All the wood was a lightly-stained maple.

There was a cute, platinum blond with really short hair sitting behind the desk, and she smiled when Sam came in. "Hi. Can I help you?"

Sam wheeled up closer. "Uh, yeah. My name is Sam Winchester. I have a yoga session scheduled with Amber in about twenty minutes. I was told to come early to fill out some paperwork."

She eyed his jeans and button-down shirt. "And change clothes, too, I hope?"

He smiled a little nervously. "Yeah. I have a t-shirt and shorts in my backpack."

She opened a drawer and pulled out a clipboard with a pen attached to it with a string. There was also a small stack of papers under the metal clip. She handed it to him, wedged between her hands. "Just fill out the top sheet and give it back to me when you're done. My name's Zoe, by the way." She nodded toward the papers. "Don't worry about the ones underneath. They're just copies of the same thing you're going to fill out."

"Right. Okay." Sam noticed the unusual curvature of her fingers and was surprised to realize that she probably didn't have much use of them, that she must have quadriplegia, although her arms seemed to have a decent amount of movement and strength. Obviously, she was a lower-level quad and her injury was probably incomplete. He was curious to know what the exact level of her injury was.

Then he kicked himself mentally for assessing her like that. It was none of his business, of course, although he figured she was probably doing the same to him. It was a weird language those with SCI shared, a sort of club where your level of injury was your ID card.

He put the clipboard on his lap and pushed himself over to the wall, where there were open spaces in between a couple of regular chairs, getting himself more out of the way. He filled out the paperwork, answering questions about his injuries—both for the shoulder and his SCI—not going into too much detail, since he had called Karen after he'd scheduled his session and told her what he was planning to do. She had faxed over his history so that Amber would know where he was in his recovery process and how much to challenge him.

When he was done, he wheeled back over to the desk and handed Zoe his paperwork. She put it in a file folder, deftly maneuvering everything even though she didn't have full use of her hands. Sam was impressed.

When she was done, she activated her power chair, maneuvering the joystick between her thumb and palm, and pulled around the desk. "Okay. If you'll follow me, I'll show you where the men's locker room is. You can change in there."

"Okay." Sam followed her and saw that her chair was very similar to the power chair he'd had to use after his shoulder injury. He'd felt weak in it, like an invalid, but this girl's confidence and agile handling of hers made the chair lose that stigma of helplessness. It was her means of independence and freedom, and she was obviously okay with it, was used to it. Sam felt like a douche for being so disdainful of it.

When they reached the opening where the men's locker room was, she spun her chair around and faced him, smiling. "Okay. Here you go. Did whoever you talked to when you made your appointment this morning suggest you might want to use an adult absorbency product, at least for the first few sessions, until you're comfortable with how your body will react to the poses? If you forgot, there are products on a shelf in the locker room."

She was talking about a diaper, and Sam felt as if the blood in his head all rushed down to that dark part of his body he couldn't feel. He thought with mortification that this was why he couldn't be with TJ and was glad that he hadn't gone in with her the day she'd brought him here. He was sure no one had mentioned that little detail to her. What girl deserved a boyfriend with that kind of issue?

"_The only thing that bothers me about it is that it bothers you,"_ she'd said.

Her words came back to him, haunting him. He wanted to believe her, but he didn't think there would ever be a time where he got used to things like that, that it would ever stop bothering him. TJ didn't really know what she was saying, and neither had Dean last night in the Impala when they'd had the talk about Sam's sexual issues. It was easy to act like it wasn't that big of a deal when you didn't have to deal with the frustration and humiliation of it on a daily basis.

Zoe's brow furrowed in apology. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you. It's just something we remind everyone of."

Sam cleared his throat. What was he supposed to say to something like that? '_Don't worry, I brought my own,' _or, '_I'll make sure I cath right before class,' or, 'I'm on a rigid bowel schedule and don't usually have a problem with those kinds of accidents.'_ Yeah. That was totally the kind of conversation he wanted to have, especially with a young, cute girl he didn't know—even if she could probably relate.

She looked uncomfortable at Sam's silence. "Okay. Well, the class Amber is teaching now is almost done. I'll let her know that you're here when she's finished."

Sam made an effort to smile politely but knew it wasn't very successful. "Okay. Thanks," he said abruptly and made his way into the locker room to change into his shorts and t-shirt.

Several minutes later, Sam found himself waiting in a room that looked a lot like a dance studio. One wall had mirrors, and there was a huge, dark-green exercise mat lying in the center of the room on the lightly-stained hardwood floor. The lights were turned off, but the room wasn't dark. It was illuminated subtly by natural light coming in from a couple of skylights, giving it a peaceful glow.

The silence of the room held no distractions, and Sam was left with his morose thoughts and anger, not to mention the pain in his legs, which looked particularly skinny and useless exposed by his shorts. He was a nanosecond from throwing in the towel and just getting the hell out of there, thinking it was all a huge mistake to come, when the door opened and a young woman who must be Amber wheeled into the room.

When she was closer, Sam realized she was older than he had first thought, somewhere in her forties, maybe, although her petite, trim body made her seem much younger. She had dark, chin-length hair held back by a bandana tied kerchief style, the complexion of someone with Hispanic origin, and a welcoming smile. Her voice was smooth, and her speech was distinct and confident. "Hello, Sam. I'm Amber Macias. I'll be instructing you in your yoga practice today."

His mood was continuing to deteriorate with each second, and he couldn't muster a proper greeting. All he managed was a terse, "Hi."

She ignored his surliness and said, "I've heard a lot about you."

"From Karen?"

The corners of her mouth curved upward, and there was humor in her dark eyes. "No. From TJ. We had quite the conversation about you when she came to buy your sessions. I guess it's been a couple of months ago, now."

"You remember her from one conversation two months ago?"

Amber nodded. "That girl's got a lot of life in her. She's hard to forget, but I suspect you already know that."

His feelings for TJ, the ones he tried to keep locked away, escaped from their cell with a vengeance, rippling up through his body, temporarily stunning him, threatening to tear him apart. He closed his eyes against the terrible ache.

"She said you'd probably be kind of—what was the word? Oh, yes. 'Pissy.'"

For a split second, before his brain caught up with his emotions, he smiled, visualizing TJ saying that, and then he remembered how much he missed her, and he felt a lack of oxygen, his chest burning like he was drowning.

"Sam, look at me." Amber's voice was calm and commanding.

Reluctantly, he did.

"I know you're hurting, and I mean emotionally, not just the physical. We're going to deal with that. Okay?"

In another life, he would have rolled his eyes at her yoga-guru perceptiveness, her air of calm and inner peace, but he needed a life preserver, and, like an actual drowning victim, he was willing to latch onto the first person willing to save him. He nodded.

"Okay. Let's get started." She locked the brakes on her chair and held onto the frame of it with one hand. Then, she bent over and made a fist with the other hand on the mat, locking her elbow. Several thin, silvery bracelets clinked together on her wrist as she deftly and agilely lowered her petite body from her wheelchair onto the mat, legs falling neatly to the side.

Her maneuver was so quick and sure that Sam would have missed it if he'd blinked, and he was impressed, remembering that TJ had told him that Amber had a high injury. He was a little envious of her gracefulness and the way she seemed so comfortable in her own body, so sure of her movements and strength.

He was hesitant. He hadn't done a wheelchair-to-floor transfer since before his shoulder injury. Although his shoulder was almost back to normal, he wasn't sure if his upper-body strength was, and he knew the transfer would require a lot of it.

"Sam, it's okay if you need help. Would you like me to call someone to help you down?"

He eyed the mat. At least, if he fell, he'd land on a padded surface. "Uh, no. I can do it."

He inhaled and released a fortifying breath, flipped the levers that locked the brakes on his chair, and took his socked feet off the footplate, placing them on the mat. Then, he decided it would be better to hold onto the frame of his chair with his right hand, since his right shoulder was weaker. He bent over and made a fist with his left hand on the mat and locked his elbow, much like Amber had done.

His concentration was momentarily broken when he felt a particularly sharp wave of the pain in his legs, but he pushed through it and slowly shifted his weight onto his left arm and fist and carefully lowered himself onto the mat, straightening his legs out with his hands once he was down. It hadn't been as difficult as he'd thought it might be, and in his relief, he actually smiled a real smile.

Amber looked pleased. "That was good. It's been a while, huh?"

"Yeah. Who knows if I'll be able to get back up again."

"Don't worry. As I said, we can always call for help. It might be trickier getting back up, especially with those long legs of yours."

"Right," he said noncommittally.

She was sitting across from him on the large mat, legs folded yoga style, bracing herself with her arms slightly behind her. "I saw you wince. Did you feel pain in your shoulder?"

"Uh, no. It's my legs. I sometimes have phantom pains."

There was a little bit of sympathy in her expression. "Ah, yes. I've had them since my accident, too. Why do you call them 'phantom' pains?"

He shrugged. He decided to humor her, although he sensed she already knew all about it. "My injury is complete. There's no way I could be physically feeling anything in my legs. It's a misfiring of nerves that tricks my brain into thinking it feels something."

"Hm. And how do you deal with it?"

"I have a prescription painkiller for when it's really bad. On days like today, I just try to ignore it, force myself not to think about it."

"Interesting." She paused, and then said, "Tell me how you see yourself, Sam."

"What?"

"Describe to me what it feels like to be in your body."

He exhaled. It had been difficult to talk about it with TJ, let alone a complete stranger. Besides, Amber was supposed to be a yoga instructor, not a shrink.

Amber gave him a measured look. "Please. It's important."

He gritted his teeth for a second before speaking. "I, uh, feel like half my body is missing, like it's dead. I'm a floating torso, and when I try to move, to be free, something holds me back. My worthless legs hold me back, make everything a struggle. It's exhausting. It's infuriating."

Amber was quiet, watching him intently.

He felt uncomfortable, felt the need to fill the silence. "It's not just my legs. It's everything. Nothing works right." As soon as he said it, he was embarrassed, felt his neck grow warm.

"It's okay, Sam. I understand. You feel anger toward that part of your body that's paralyzed. You were taught in rehab that it's something that you have to overcome, that you have to defeat. It's all about upper-body strength. The stronger you are, the more you can compensate for what you've lost, the more chance you have of achieving a normal life. Am I right?"

He'd never thought of it quite like that, but she was right. "Yeah."

"What if I told you that there's another way to think about it, that the paralyzed part of your body didn't die. It just changed its voice."

Sam snorted. "I'd say that you're wasting my time."

She didn't seem to take offense, just gave him a patient smile. "Think about it this way. Your body didn't ask for what happened to it. It's not the fault of your legs that they can't move, and, yet, you are angry at them. You see them as a hindrance, and they're something you have to overcome. They serve no purpose anymore, and you hate them because of that."

It sounded ridiculous when she said it like that, like his legs were a person or something.

"But think about how amazing your body is, how committed to life it is." Her voice held a little bit of awe. "It sustained a devastating injury, and yet it keeps going. Its heart still pumps blood, and all the astounding processes still flow and work together in concert, even when you hate your body, even when you want to conquer it, even when you've written half of it off as dead."

Sam didn't know what to say.

"What if I said the doctors taught you wrong, that the pain you feel in your legs is real, that it's your paralyzed body talking to you, trying to tell you to listen, to stop ignoring it?"

"I'd say that it should find a better way to communicate," said Sam sarcastically.

"No. _You _need to find a better way to listen, and that's what I'm going to teach you."

"My spinal cord was totally severed. It's impossible."

"Okay. You said when your pain is really bad, you take a prescription painkiller. Does it work?"

"Not really," he admitted.

"How is that possible? If the pain is a result of a misfiring of nerves, shouldn't the drug alter the effect in your brain and make the pain go away? Why doesn't it work?"

"I guess the doctors haven't figured out exactly what's going on. They're not sure why the medication doesn't really help that much."

"Hm. If they're not sure, then how can they be sure that your paralyzed body isn't able to communicate in a different way? Maybe they don't know everything. But, even more importantly, who cares if they're right or wrong? To you, the pain is very real.

"How dare they tell you it's not, that it's just the result of something that's gone haywire, that it's all in your head? They're trying to convince you to ignore what's right in front of you. You are _feeling_ something in your legs, Sam. That's monumental. It's a mind/body connection. Your legs are not dead. They're still there, and they're telling you so. Don't listen to anyone else. Listen to them."

Sam was skeptical.

"Sam, because the pathway from your mind to your body has been damaged, it is important for you to experience _any_ kind of connection to the paralyzed part of your body that you can. Anything that reconnects your sense of self to your paralyzed body is a form of healing, even pain."

He was beginning to understand what she was saying, but he wasn't sure he was buying it.

Amber must have sensed his doubt. "Okay, Sam. I want you to watch something." She unfolded her legs with her hands and lay down flat on the mat. "Watch my left foot."

Sam watched, and, to his amazement, her left foot moved marginally, even though her form-fitting yoga pants clearly defined her thin, unmoving legs, the legs of someone who obviously had paraplegia.

She levered herself back into a sitting position, demonstrating amazing balance for someone who probably didn't have the use of their abdominal muscles. She folded her legs again, facing him, resting her hands on her thighs, and grinned. "Like yours, my injury is complete. I am completely paralyzed from my nipple line down."

Sam's eyes widened, and he tried not to look at her breasts at the reference to her nipples. He was a guy after all. "How did you do that, then?"

"I cheated," she said matter-of-factly. "I used my neck and upper back muscles to make it happen. I can show you how to do it, if you'd like. It's a great party trick. Really freaks people out."

He laughed. "What does that have to do with anything, though?"

"It let's me experience fun in my body again. It's a playful relationship to my body that isn't all strain and management and work.

"When I did that in rehab, it actually made my therapists wary, and they gently admonished me, reminding me that it meant nothing, that I would never walk again, that I wasn't really moving my foot, even though my eyes could see that I was. To them, the only valid connection between my mind and my body was a physiological one through my spinal cord.

"But they're wrong. Every time I make my foot move, by whatever means, it delights me. It makes me aware of my foot, reminds me that it is still there, that it's not gone, and whether I will walk again or not doesn't matter. In fact, it has nothing to do with it.

"Do you see what I'm saying? I feel a connection to my lower body when I do that, and my spinal cord and nerves are irrelevant. I know that my body is still whole. It is still all there. It is a relationship within my body that nourishes me, that matters, that makes me care about my body."

It clicked with Sam then, what she was saying, and for the first time in a long time, he felt a glimmer of hope. As she'd said, it was important to feel a connection to his paralyzed body in whatever way it could be achieved, and he was beginning to understand that there might be other ways to do it than through his spinal cord.

She looked satisfied that he seemed to at least be listening to her with more of an open mind, and she said, "That's a visual way to see the connection, the wonder of how muscles way up on my upper body are able to move my foot. It's fascinating, and it makes me appreciate the finer nuances of my body and how they work together, its resiliency—makes me respect it, even though it is paralyzed."

She gave him an intense look. "Your paralyzed body deserves the same respect from you, Sam. It is the only body you have, and it deserves your attention."

He wasn't sure what to say to that. "Okay," he said lamely.

"The connection doesn't have to be just visual, and I'm going to show you what I mean. I'm going to show you how to listen to your body and let it teach you. Right now, however, let's begin by shaking hands with our feet."

He remembered the conversation he'd had with TJ about that, how he'd been so jaded. He felt a pang of remorse for being kind of a dick about it, although he still thought shaking hands with his feet was crazy and a little gay. However, he tried not to show it.

The corners of Amber's mouth curved upward. "I'm impressed by your restraint, Sam. TJ said you would, at the very least, roll your eyes."

He smiled, trying not to let on how hard it was to talk about TJ. She was always with him, in his thoughts wherever he went, no matter how hard he tried to tuck her away.

"Okay, Sam." Amber gave him a wry look. "First, you're going to have to take your socks off."

It was a simple thing to ask, but Sam hardly ever went without socks. He didn't like looking at his pale, limp feet. They sort of reminded him of dead fish.

Amber was waiting patiently, so he gritted his teeth and took off the socks.

"I want you to take your legs out in front of you like this," she said, unfolding her legs and spreading them straight and wide with her hands, like a vee.

Sam cleared his throat, feeling kind of girly, but did as she asked. He'd taken his antispasticity med, but it had been a long time since he'd had his legs out wide in such a way, and his legs were a little stiff and weren't cooperating. Come to think of it, it's not like he ever sat that way even before his injury. It took him several tries to get his legs to where they would stay in position. When he finally did, it made him feel surprisingly...free, although he didn't know why.

"Good. Okay." She enunciated her words in a precise, smooth way. "Now, put a finger between each of your toes and form a clasp, like this," she said, bending over her legs and demonstrating.

He copied what she was doing, linking the fingers of each hand with the toes of each foot. He felt an instant sinking in his stomach, a slightly nauseous feeling, at the way his feet and toes felt. They were too smooth and too cool to his fingertips, reminded him of how his legs and feet were usually a degree or two colder than the upper part of his body because of poor circulation. They weren't a part of him. They were inanimate, rubber objects.

"Now, I want you to gently roll the ball of your foot first in one direction and then the other."

Sam did as she instructed, although he was still repulsed.

After several rotations, she said, "All right. Good."

Sam took that as a cue that he could finally stop, and, with relief, he pushed himself back up with his hands into a sitting position.

His face must have shown the discomfort he'd felt because Amber gave him a small, knowing smile. "It's hard, isn't it?"

"Yeah." He knew she wasn't talking about physically.

She nodded. "It gets easier. I'm going to show you four yoga poses to do at home that you're going to practice every day, and you're going to always introduce yourself to your feet like that before you start. Okay?"

He wasn't thrilled about the idea, but he agreed. "Okay."

"All right. Now, I want you to put your hands slightly behind you and lift up your chest."

He did.

"Good. Now, this time when you do it, don't hold your breath," she said with a little humor in her eyes.

She was right. He hadn't realized it, but he'd been holding his breath. Legs still in a vee in front of him, he did the pose again, breathing deeply, the lifting of his chest making it easier, creating more room for his lungs to expand. It felt good.

"Okay. I want you to put your hands on your thighs, now, lift your chest, and breathe again."

This time, he felt something different, a feeling that felt a little like he had grown taller. He was amazed that such a simple, subtle change in his position could create such a feeling. It seemed to meld with the phantom pain, made it less intense somehow, more of an energy. He looked at Amber.

She met his gaze with a tranquil, wise air. She obviously knew what he was feeling, but she didn't comment. Instead, she said, "Good, Sam. The yoga we are practicing concentrates on precision and alignment, and your back is very straight and aligned. It's impressive. I take it your injury wasn't too damaging to your vertebrae?"

"Uh, no, it wasn't."

She seemed unfazed that he didn't elaborate on how he'd gotten hurt. "Okay. I want you to close your eyes and visualize that alignment. Start with your head and travel down your spine to the lower part of your body. Take a minute to assess your whole body, focus on what you know to be true, although you can't feel it physically. I want you to remember how the weight is distributed between your sits bones and imagine it now. Imagine a connection between your chest, your tailbone, and all the way down through your feet."

Sam was startled to realize that he could visualize it easily, that, on a very subtle level, he could feel a sense of his whole body—inside and out, paralyzed and unparalyzed. He realized that, although he couldn't feel it on a physical level, the logical part of him, his mind, sensed that parts of his body were still working together, that his sits bones were supporting his upper body, that his legs were contributing to his balance, and that there was an energy coursing through his entire body. He grinned with the elation and relief of it. It was the first time he'd felt whole in this body since his injury.

Amber nodded, smiling and sharing the moment with him. "You will be an excellent student, Sam."

**XXXXXXXX**

Dean watched as Karen and a tall, muscular PT named Michael helped Sam put his new leg braces on. Sam was wearing athletic style shorts—a rare thing for him to do in public—because Karen had told him he would probably want to wear the braces on his legs under his clothing, so it was better to see how they fit on his bare legs.

Sam's braces were called KAFOs, or knee-ankle-foot-orthotics, and, apparently without telling anyone, he had been measured for them about a month ago, around the time that he'd announced that he was going to get a job, go back to school, and that Bobby could go home.

Sam had informed Dean for the first time about the braces yesterday evening as they were driving to Shorty's for work. "So, uh, tomorrow morning I'm gonna try out my new leg braces. Karen called today and said they were in."

Dean gave a surprised look at Sam, almost hitting the car in the lane next to them and getting honked at because he wasn't paying attention. "You wanna say that again?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Leg braces. I got cast for KAFOs about a month ago because Karen said she thought my shoulder would for sure be able to withstand the strain by the time they came in, and now they're here. I thought if you could take off a few hours at Firestone tomorrow, you might wanna come."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Ya think? Sam, why didn't you tell me about this?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Didn't seem like a big deal."

"Dude, you walking is a big deal."

Sam looked out the windshield ahead of him. "Yeah. I guess it is."

Dean was quiet for a moment, and then he glanced at Sam again. "I'm proud of you."

"What?" Sam sounded unsure and was frowning, as if he'd misheard.

"I'm proud of you, Sam. Not just for the way you've been handling things, but for everything. The way you ganked that demon, the sacrifice you made, doing the right thing. I never should have doubted you. I never should have thought the demon could get to you."

Sam's brows went up. "Are we having a chick-flick moment here?"

"I just wanted you to know."

Sam's expression grew troubled. "He almost did get to me, Dean. Maybe I'm not as strong as you think."

"Hey, man, you're human. It doesn't matter what went through your head. All that matters is that, in the end, you did what was right. It takes a lot of balls to make the choice you did." He paused, feeling a little emo. "Bobby was right. Dad would be proud of you. And Mom, too."

Sam looked down at his lap, throat working, and then he looked at Dean. "Thanks."

So, now, here they were, and Sam was about to take his first steps with the braces. They went from his upper thighs down to his feet, part metal and part plastic, and had straps that Velcroed at various points to keep them on and secure. He was sitting in his wheelchair close to the parallel bars, watching as Karen showed him how to put his new Adidas tennis shoes—a size bigger than he actually wore—on around the hard, plastic foot-and-ankle part of the brace. He'd bought the shoes specifically for wearing with the braces.

When Karen was done, she said, "All right, Sam. You ready?"

"Yeah." He glanced at Dean, arching his brows a little and quirking his mouth for a second in that self-conscious way he sometimes had, before turning his attention back to Karen.

Dean could tell he was a little nervous, and Dean felt a little nervous for him.

Karen looked at Dean. "You wanna stand in front of him, and Michael will hold on behind him to the belt on his waist for stability? That way, if he loses his balance, you guys will be either behind or in front of him to catch him."

"Come on, Karen," teased Sam, "Aren't _you_ gonna catch me?"

Karen huffed. "You'd squash me like a bug."

He grinned.

Karen was tiny. Although she was strong, and Dean had seen her help Sam transfer to and from his chair several times, a precariously-standing Sasquatch Sam was a whole other ballgame.

Karen went into her no-nonsense mode. "All right, Sam." She pulled up Sam's shorts on the sides so the thigh part of each brace was exposed, showing Sam small, black levers at the very top of the braces. "This is the locking mechanism. When it's flipped back like it is now, your brace is in free mode." She moved his lower leg, showing him how it moved easily, how his knee wasn't locked. "That's how you want it, obviously, when you're sitting down, so you can bend your knee."

Sam nodded.

"Okay. When you get ready to stand, you're going to flip the lever into locking mode. As you come up, it's going to lock every five degrees. It does that so that if you get tired during the process of standing up, you won't fall back into your chair and have to start over again. Once it begins to lock, the only way to get it into free mode again is to sit down and take your weight off the braces. It won't unlock if there's any weight exerted on the brace at all. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Ready?"

Sam took a deep breath. "Yeah."

"Okay. Get up close to the bars so you can grab them."

Sam pushed his chair up to the bars, and Dean ducked under one of the rails so he could stand in front of him.

Michael, a sort of snub-nosed, sandy-haired guy, stood to the side, ready to grab the wide, flesh-colored belt around Sam's waist. It reminded Dean of the belts weightlifters used, except that it had a loop on it that the therapist could grab hold of.

"Now, Sam, you're going to pull yourself up using the bars for now, but when you feel more comfortable with the braces, I'll show you how to stand up pushing yourself up from your chair."

Sam nodded, grabbed hold of the bars, and began to pull and then push down on the them. As he did so, he started to rise out of his wheelchair, and the braces started making a clicking noise as Sam got taller and taller, his legs slowly straightening.

Once Sam was almost to a stand, Michael pushed the wheelchair back a little so he could get more behind Sam, keeping a firm hold on the belt.

Karen scrutinized Sam with a professional eye. "You're looking good, Sam. Is that as far as you can go?"

Sam was straining. "I can't get up any straighter."

"Okay. What I want you to do is lean back a little on your heels. That'll give you the extra oomph you need to get the braces to lock into the straightest position.

Sam looked a little wary but carefully leaned back on his heels, his hands death-gripping the bars.

The braces clicked a final time, and his knees locked into place.

Karen smiled. "Good. Okay. Now, just stand there for a minute."

Sam looked at Dean, his face a little pale.

"How you feelin'?" asked Dean.

Sam grinned weakly. "Tall."

Dean rolled his eyes, pretending to be annoyed. It actually felt good to have Sam be taller than him again, but he'd never let Sam know that.

Karen looked concerned. "You getting a head rush, Sam?"

"Just a little bit. It's passing."

After a minute, Dean was relieved to see that Sam's color was returning, and he seemed more sure of himself.

Karen gave a short nod of satisfaction. "Okay. When you're ready, I'm going to have Michael let go of the belt, and I want you to see if you can balance standing up without holding onto the bars.

Sam looked at her like she was crazy.

She was unfazed. "You can do it."

He hesitated for a second. "Okay. I'm ready."

Karen gave Michael a look, and he let go of the belt.

Sam gingerly let go of the bars for a fraction of a second, wobbled, and immediately gripped them again.

"Good. Keep trying," said Karen.

He sort of straightened his back more, almost arching it a bit, and let go again. He wobbled, but he was able to let go for a little longer.

"Again. Find a focal point. Sometimes that helps with the balance."

Sam homed in on the amulet hanging down from the necklace around Dean's neck. It had been a gift from Sam when they were kids.

Dean tensed and stood as still as possible, holding his breath, not wanting to move and mess up Sam's sense of balance.

Sam let go of the bars again. This time he stood for four seconds on his own—Dean was counting—without anyone helping him, until he started to teeter, and then he grabbed the bars with lightning speed before he could fall or anyone could help him.

Karen was beaming. "That was great! That's amazing, actually. Most people, it takes several PT sessions before they can do it for that long. I know it doesn't seem like much, but that's huge. I think the yoga is already helping you with balance."

Sam colored a little.

Dean smirked. "Yoga?" The leg braces weren't the only thing Sam had kept from him.

Sam rolled his eyes and sighed. "I just started last week. I decided to try it out, you know, since TJ bought me those sessions."

He looked a little forlorn at the mention of TJ, and Dean didn't have the heart to tease him...for now. Dean settled for raising his brows and smirking. "Awesome."

Sam sighed again, as if he knew he was in for it later.

Karen, having no interest in their conversation, got back to business. "All right, Sam. Ready to start walking?"

He gave a short nod.

"Okay. We're going to start with your right side. You're going to use your abdominal muscles and any other upper-body muscles that'll help you to swing your hip and sort of pull your foot through."

His brow furrowed in intense concentration, and he drew in a breath. His arms and shoulders started to strain, his muscles bulging with exertion, and his face reddened. Then, slowly but surely, his right hip lifted a little and his right foot sort of swung forward. It was a tiny movement, but it was a step.

He released his breath in a whoosh, panting a little.

"One small step for man, one giant step for Sasquatch," Dean teased.

Sam smiled.

Karen, ever the slave-driver, said, "Now, the left side."

Sam repeated the maneuver on his left side, and his left foot moved forward in a bigger step than he'd taken with his right. Again, the exertion left him panting.

"Good, Sam. Keep going," said Karen.

Dean moved back a step to give Sam more room, and Michael still stood behind him, although he wasn't holding onto the belt.

Sam took several more stiff-legged steps, obviously getting tired, a bit of moisture beading on his forehead.

Karen's hands hovered around him, as if she wanted to help him but knew she couldn't. "How's the shoulder?"

"Good."

She arched a brow. "Really?"

He closed his eyes for a second and nodded. "Really. It's fine."

"Don't overdo it."

"I won't."

"Okay. Keeping going, then. Take another step."

Sam took in another deep breath, scrunching his eyes closed, but nothing happened. He opened his eyes, looking a little sheepish. "My shoulder doesn't hurt, but I think I'm getting tired."

"Try it again, Sam."

He exhaled, looking a little annoyed, but didn't protest. His faced tensed, straining like a weightlifter in the olympics, like one of those big, burly Russian dudes lifting three hundred pounds, and his right foot finally moved forward again. He released his breath, panting like he'd run a marathon.

"Good. One more, Sam."

He shook his head. "I can't."

"You can."

Dean piped up. "No pain, no gain, Sammy."

Sam looked irritated. "I hate it when people say that."

"Stop being so bitchy. Dude, you're _walking_. Suck it up and stoke your adrenaline. Take another step."

Sam gritted his teeth. "It's friggin' hard, Dean."

"Come on, Sammy. One more."

Sam gave him a baleful look but didn't argue. He shored himself up and groaned with the effort it took to take that last step, and his foot moved forward.

Dean was overwhelmed with pride for his little brother, and he stepped forward and took Sam into a tight embrace. "You did it, Sammy. You did it."

Sam sagged into him, completely exhausted and out of breath, letting Dean hold him up.

Karen was grinning as if the triumph was hers, too. In a way, it was. She'd helped Sam come a long way.

She nodded toward Michael, and he rolled Sam's chair up behind him, and Dean carefully lowered Sam into it, his legs sticking out straight and stiff in front of him.

"Now, that's a good look," Dean deadpanned.

Sam gave him a tired grin.

Karen showed Sam how to release the locks on the braces so that he could bend his knees again and patted him on the back. "That was amazing, Sam, especially for your first time." She shook her head in disbelief. "Even more amazing, you're only four months out from your shoulder surgery. It usually takes six to seven months or longer to get to this level."

Dean wasn't surprised. Sam always did everything quicker than the average person.

"I know it takes a tremendous amount of energy," Karen went on, "but it'll get easier. You should try to come back every other day or so to practice on the bars so you can build strength. We've really got to get you comfortable with your balance, too."

Sam gave a short nod, looking up at her. He was still a little out of breath.

She waggled her brows. "Then we'll move on to crutches."

Sam rolled his eyes a bit and groaned, like the mere thought of it was exhausting.

Dean knew otherwise. His little brother was a badass.

_**TBC**_

_**A/N: For all you cynics out there and also so I won't be accused of plagiarism, the yoga stuff is based heavily on a book I read by a real-life Amber, only he's a guy, and Sam's experience with his mind/body connection were taken directly from this guy. I didn't make it up, and it's really possible. I don't want to publish the guy's name here, since I don't have his permission, but if anyone is interested, send me a PM and I can give you the name of the book as one friend to another. :)**_


	18. Chapter 18

_**A/N: Well, here it is, the last full chapter. Please, please, please, let me know what you guys think of the end. This is the culmination of all my hard work, and, even if you think it's totally cheesy and disappointing, I still want to know and why so I can do better on the next story. So...all you silent readers in the peanut gallery, now's your chance. Speak, and let your voices be heard! **_

_**Special thanks goes to coolhan08 for all her support and technical advice. You're awesome, girl. Also, thanks to you readers who reviewed every chapter. Some of you have become friends, and you know who you are. I will miss hearing from you every week! Those of you who review regularly are the trendsetters. You let people know by your reviews that my story is worth reading, and nothing could mean more to me as a writer. :)**_

**Chapter 18**

Sam sat on the small exercise mat in his room in shorts and a t-shirt, bare-footed, door shut, as he'd been doing every morning for the three weeks since his first session with Amber. He'd been having two sessions a week with her, and it was amazing how much he'd learned in such a relatively small amount of time. He looked forward to exploring the new potential of his body—and he didn't even feel that gay about it anymore.

He was shaking hands with his feet, as he had done before beginning each practice, even though he'd really hated it at first. It had progressively gotten easier, however, and he realized he was getting used to how his feet and toes felt to his touch, that they weren't rubbery, dead-fish feet. They were just...his feet.

They were normal, regular feet, even if they wouldn't voluntarily move, and they were his. He still had feet, and they served a purpose. Without them, he wouldn't be able to walk with his KAFOs. They were a base that held up his entire body. The revelation was so simple it was almost ridiculous, but, at the same time, for him, it was a very profound discovery.

When he was done with saying hello to his feet, he moved into a simple pose Amber had taught him in their last session. He put the soles of his feet together, pressing them together with his hands, and leaned forward a bit. Outwardly, he knew this position would stretch his groin and lower abdominal muscles and increase blood flow to those areas. That part was science.

Inwardly, if he cleared his mind and concentrated, he could feel that the pressing of his heels together changed his awareness in his lower abdomen. It created an inner sensation of his knees moving toward the floor, which, in turn, made his lower abdominal muscles feel like they were lifting, even though it was all below the level of his injury. Was it all in his mind? Yeah. But, just like the phantom pains, it was still very real.

He was learning new techniques to feel his body, to gain presence on the inside, to listen to his paralyzed body. He was cognizant of a kind of humming, a new sensation that wasn't like anything he'd known before, even in just the three weeks that he'd been practicing the yoga.

The buzz, the hum, fluctuated, moved, was more prevalent, of course, when he meditated or made an effort to find it, to pay attention to it. He had noticed that it became agitated if he needed to use the bathroom and that his upper abdominal muscles flexed for a fraction of a second every couple of minutes when his bladder was full—something he'd never been aware of before. He had recently been able to predict a couple of times that he needed to go, and he hoped that it would become a regular thing, that he would become accustomed to listening to the subtle hints.

He was slowly but surely unlocking the door to the silent, dark part of his body in another way, and he didn't have to try to violently—pointlessly—pound on it until he was consumed with rage.

It made him want to listen even more closely to his body, and he wondered how he could use this new self-knowledge, this new awareness, in other areas...like sex. He remembered what he'd shared with TJ, how his body had sort of rerouted itself, made him able to feel sensations and pleasures he'd never felt before. If he could still find enjoyment in things by learning a fresh way to experience them, then maybe it could be the same for TJ.

Maybe he shouldn't be hung up on the fact that he couldn't please her in one way when there were many alternatives. Maybe he would go to a doctor, see if there was something to help him like Dean had suggested, but, in the meantime, maybe he could experiment with her and find innovative ways for her to experience pleasure, too. They could at least have fun trying.

He was realizing the possibilities were endless, that he could still taste many of the things he thought were lost to him, and he realized that Dean had been right. He was a moron for pushing TJ away.

Tonight would be the first time he'd seen her in over seven weeks—seven weeks and two days, to be exact—nearly two months, and he'd missed her so much.

He loved her, and if she still loved him, maybe they had a chance after all. Like Dean had said, no relationship came with a guarantee, and if there was any girl in the world who was strong enough to deal with Sam's disability, it was her.

He was beginning to see a light at the end of the tunnel. What he needed, though, was the sun. He needed TJ.

He finished the last of his poses, feeling a pleasant fatigue in his arms and shoulders. Some of the poses were physically challenging, strengthening as they also helped with flexibility, and he could tell his arms and shoulders already felt stronger.

He'd discovered that he hadn't lost as much upper-body strength as he'd first thought. There was no way he would have been able to use his arms to help maneuver his body weight with his leg braces if he had, and he'd been getting from his wheelchair to the floor and back up again without much problem.

As he finished his practice, he ended in the classic yoga pose where his legs were folded lotus style with his hands in prayer, head bowed. He liked to end that way, after completely relaxing in S_avasana_. The prayer pose seemed to seal in the energy he'd unleashed.

He heard a light tap on his door.

"Come in."

Dean stuck his head in. "Hey, Gandhi—"

Sam rolled his eyes.

"—you still wanna go get a graduation gift for TJ?"

"Yeah."

"What time you wanna go?"

Sam shrugged. "I still have to take a shower, get dressed."

"All right, dude. I'm gonna go for a run." Dean had said it as if he did it every day.

Sam raised his brows. "_You?_"

Dean looked a little embarrassed. "Uh, it's with Heather."

"Oh, right." Sam held in a smile and shrugged. "We can go whenever. The commencement ceremony doesn't start until four."

Dean glanced at the wheelchair nearby and then at Sam on the mat, and Sam knew Dean wanted to offer to help him get back in his chair, but he didn't. He never hovered over Sam anymore, never tried to give help unless Sam asked for it. He also made Sam pitch in with the laundry and the housework.

They were a team again. So what if it involved the mundane things of normal living instead of risking their lives killing things that only lived in most people's worst nightmares. He wondered if Dean missed the hunting. Dean had seemed really happy lately, especially since things were going well with Heather.

This week had been Dean's last week at Shorty's. There was no need for him to work two jobs now that Sam was working and bringing in an income. Sam figured Dean actually liked the Shorty's job better because he liked to work with Heather, but, for insurance reasons, he had to keep the Firestone job instead, at least for now. Lately, Dean had started to dream of someday opening his own garage.

"All right, man. See you later."

"Later," Sam answered.

Dean shut the door and was gone, and Sam was left alone with his thoughts again, which naturally went back to TJ.

He'd thought many times about calling her, but he knew she'd be busy with finals and graduation and gearing up for her summer job, and he hadn't wanted to distract her. At least, that's what he'd told himself, but, the truth was, he'd been a little afraid, too.

He knew she was okay. He got e-mails from Gretchen giving him subtle reports on how TJ was doing. He knew that she'd been eating, was still gaining weight, and that she'd been going to her counseling sessions like she was supposed to. He knew that she'd won her graduate scholarship, that, despite all the setbacks she'd had in this last semester, she was still graduating with honors.

It sounded like she was moving on, that she was maybe happy. Was she over him? It hadn't been _that_ long since she'd left, but, in reality, it hadn't taken them very long to fall in love with each other. How long would it take her to fall out of love?

The question was too disturbing, and he pushed it away, turning his attention to getting back in his chair. First, he pulled his legs up until his knees were up to his chest and tucked his feet in as closely to his body as he could. Then, he grabbed the frame of his chair with one hand and braced his other hand, in a fist, on the mat, locking his elbow. Then, in one quick, fluid movement, he lifted his butt up in the air, high enough to clear his wheelchair seat, and sat down in it.

It was a maneuver not unlike what a male gymnast would do on the rings. It took a tremendous amount of upper-body strength, and he smiled to himself. _That_ was badass, especially for someone with long legs like his.

He placed his feet on the footplate and pushed himself toward the bathroom. He had to get in the shower and get dressed. He had a graduation gift to buy, and he knew exactly what to get.

**XXXXXXXX**

They were all at Shorty's, sitting at a large, round table—Vern, Fern, Heather, Dean, and Sam. TJ's spot next to Sam was empty. She was in big demand by her fellow classmates and friends who had graduated with her and was off talking and mingling, and she looked beautiful.

His heart had started beating double time when he'd gotten a glimpse of her tall form walking onto the floor of Cox Arena, the place where the commencement ceremonies had been held, with all the other graduates of the College of Sciences. There were at least a thousand students on the floor, but he'd found her almost instantly.

Because Sam used a wheelchair, TJ had gotten disabled-seating tickets for him and a guest, even though he realized she hadn't known for sure he would come. It was a great seat with a perfect, unobstructed view, and Ferna Sue had sat with him.

Sam's seat was far better than the ones Dean and Vern had tickets for higher up in the arena where they sat with Gretchen and Heather. They had, of course, all agreed to let Ferna Sue have the good seat with Sam.

The ceremony had lasted two hours, and they'd caught up with TJ afterward outside the arena. It was the first time Sam had been close to TJ since the day she'd walked out of his apartment, and he felt a surge in his blood pressure and a slight shortness of breath.

She was beaming, her smile transforming her face, making it glow. She was wearing a black cap and gown with a royal-blue honor stole and gold honor cords around her neck.

Ferna Sue was holding a camera, her blond, poofy hair at full height. "Okay, TJ, hon. Stand next to Sam and let me take y'all's picture."

TJ leaned in a little, standing next to Sam.

Sam felt himself stiffen, his body hyperaware of her, and he could feel tension coming off TJ, too. It was an awkward moment for both of them, but Ferna Sue seemed oblivious. "TJ, hon, get in closer and put your arm around Sam. And stop looking like you two are mannequins and give me real smiles."

TJ crouched down to where she was eye level with Sam and gave him a rueful look. "Sorry," she said in a low voice meant only for his ears, "I haven't really told her that we don't, you know, hang out anymore."

Sam had figured that by the way Fern had talked to him during the ceremony. "It's okay," he said, distracted by how good TJ smelled, that faint scent of flowers and mint, how he could feel warmth coming from her, how healthy she looked. She must be close to her recommended weight range. She was still thin, could still maybe gain a few more pounds, but she looked good. She looked really good.

Fern sounded a little exasperated. "Come on, TJ, put your arm around him, hon. Lordy, y'all act like you just met each other."

Dean was standing next to Vern, a wry smirk on his face, and Heather and Gretchen were obviously trying to act as if everything was normal, artificial smiles on their faces.

TJ put her arm around Sam's shoulders, and he put his arm around her back, and it felt right, like he'd found a piece of himself. He smiled a genuine smile, just glad to be near her.

Fern snapped another picture and then checked the digital display on the camera. "Now, that's what I'm talkin' about, y'all. That's a good one."

TJ let go of him, then, but stayed crouched next to him. Her brows lifted and she smiled with delight. "Nice shoes."

He looked down at his feet and smiled back. He was wearing the black Converse sneakers that she'd gotten him for his birthday. "Thanks," he said, looking at her again.

"They totally go with the khakis," she teased.

"Yeah. I thought so." Like everyone else, he was dressed in his nice clothes—khakis and a white button-down shirt with a tie and navy-blue jacket—except for his shoes.

He wanted to say more, should have thanked her for the gift a long time ago, but then Ferna Sue wanted to get shots of TJ with both him and Dean, then shots of TJ with Heather and Gretchen, and then they had to take several family pictures of TJ with her dad and then with Fern, and then all three of them. Then, they talked a stranger into taking a few pictures of the group as a whole.

After what seemed like a million pictures later, they finally made it to Shorty's for the graduation party. Since Fern and Vern were oblivious to the fact that Sam and TJ weren't hanging out together anymore, they still treated him as one of the family—and by extension, Dean and Heather, too.

Sam couldn't believe that TJ hadn't at least told her mom. He knew that TJ and her mom were very close, and he couldn't imagine that TJ hadn't told Fern anything about what had happened—not about the demon and the hunting, of course—but that Sam supposedly didn't have the same feelings for TJ that she had for him, that things had gotten too awkward, that they hadn't seen each other for what seemed to Sam like an eternity.

He watched TJ, who was standing in a circle of friends that included the blond guy that was her downstairs neighbor, the guy named Ralph. She was holding a glass of soda in one hand and would occasionally take a sip of the straw.

She had taken off her cap and gown and was wearing a red dress made of some kind of flowing material that wrapped around her body and tied in a loose bow at her waist. The length of the dress ended just above her knees, and she was wearing classic black heels that made her shapely legs seem to go on for miles. She was still slim, but she had gained a few curves since the last time he'd seen her, and the dress accentuated them, made her look chic and feminine.

Her dark, auburnish hair was down. It still reached just past her shoulders, but it had been cut more into a style instead of just being even and straight, seemed to have more movement. It suited her, framing her face and giving her a more sophisticated air, although her girlish freckles added a playfulness and sass that was all TJ.

Her dark eyes sparkled with life and excitement. This was the beginning of a new era for her, and it was obvious that she was exuberant in the moment, sharing it with her friends, and Sam was happy for her. She and her friends were all a little giddy, it seemed, and the beer had started flowing. He was even nursing one himself.

A buffet had been set up with all the crap they normally served at Shorty's—chicken wings, fries, burgers, and the like—and Sam had gotten himself a burger, but he was too on edge to eat, even though everyone else was almost finished with theirs. He wanted to talk to TJ, but he was realizing that was going to be harder than he'd thought. Preoccupied, he didn't realize at first that Vernon was talking to him.

"...in the fall?"

Sam frowned, just catching the tail-end of the question. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

Vernon stared at him for a second. "Son, you're about as fun to talk to as an old shoe tonight."

Sam gave a slightly embarrassed smile. "Oh. Sorry. What were you saying?"

Vernon rolled his eyes. "I said, TJ tells me that you're gonna go back to school in the fall."

"Yeah. I just need another year to graduate."

Fern was engaged in a conversation with Dean and Heather, so Vernon was persistent in talking to Sam. He asked Sam about his major and what his plans were, and Sam told him that he'd eventually like to go to law school.

Sam tried his best to concentrate on what Vern was saying, but his eyes kept shifting to TJ. He lost sight of her and was looking around, still pretending to listen to Vern as Vern reminisced about his own college days.

He was so occupied by trying to be polite to Vern and still find TJ that he was startled when she came up behind him and hung her gold honor cords around his neck. She put her hands on his shoulders, and he could feel the vibration of her voice as she bent down to speak near his ear. "These are for you. We're supposed to give them to someone who was supportive and helped us get through school."

Vernon and all the other occupants of the table had stopped their conversations when TJ had come over, focusing their attention on her.

She pulled out the chair next to Sam and sat down, smiling, her soda and a plate with a hamburger and fries almost identical to Sam's that he hadn't noticed her carry over sitting before her.

Sam felt uneasy. "TJ, these cords—I mean, you shouldn't give these to me. Your parents—"

She glanced at her parents, love dancing across her features. "My parents know how I feel about them and all that they've done for me."

Fern winked, and Vernon actually looked a little misty.

TJ turned back to Sam and nodded at the cords. "I want you to have them. Without you, I wouldn't have passed Latin and graduated with honors—and I probably would have lost my graduate scholarship, too."

Sam was moved and held her gaze, wanting to say so many things to her, but not in front of everyone. So, instead, he said simply, "Thank you."

She shook her head. "No. Thank _you_."

He fingered one of the tassels at the end of one of the cords, knowing the gold color meant she'd graduated with a very high GPA. "Summa cum laude?"

She looked impressed that he knew the significance and smiled. "Yeah. By the skin of my teeth."

"That's awesome, TJ. That's no small thing."

She blushed modestly and looked down. "Thanks."

Dean held up his beer. "I'd like to propose a toast."

He had everyone's attention, but Sam was wary of what Dean might say, and so was TJ, judging by the look on her face.

Dean was smiling. "Here's to TJ. Congratulations on your awesome accomplishment, and may you add many more to your list as you go on to graduate school. I know you'll achieve great things." He ducked his head a little to one side in deference and respect. "You are in a class all your own, Miss Nelek."

TJ arched her brows in surprise at Dean's eloquent words, and Sam kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Dean to say something snarky.

"Here, here," said Vern and Fern, obviously not privy to the more smart-ass part of Dean's nature.

Everyone clinked glasses, Sam still watching Dean.

Dean noticed and raised a brow, indignant. "What? I can be mature."

TJ smiled affectionately, head tilted a little. "Thanks, Dean."

A mischievous smile stole across Vern's features. "I have a toast, too, one that's been passed down through the ages."

TJ narrowed her eyes. "Daddy, don't you dare."

Vernon winked at her and stood, puffing his chest out as if he were a consummate toastmaster, and raised his glass.

Conversation at the other tables stopped, too, when they saw Vern standing, and all eyes were on him.

He was clearly in his element, and began to speak with drama, his loud voice filling the room. "Here's to the bee...that stung the bull—"

"Mama, make him stop," hissed TJ, turning red.

Fern's hand was loosely covering her own mouth, and she was shaking with laughter.

"—that got the bull to buckin'." Vernon's blue eyes were twinkling with mirth, and he waved his pint through the air in a gesture worthy of a Kentucky version of Julius Caesar.

TJ groaned with embarrassment and buried her head in her arms.

Sam was grinning, and Dean and Heather were laughing.

Vernon went on. "Here's to Eve, who ate the apple—"

TJ's head snapped up, and her eyes were big. "_Mom,_" she implored, clearly wanting Fern to do something.

"—and got us all to fuc—"

"Come on, Vern," said Fern, reaching up and clapping a small hand over her husband's mouth, still laughing. "Let's go dance."

Everyone in the room held up their glasses and murmured "Cheers" or "Here, here" except TJ, who looked like she wanted to crawl under the table.

Some of the tables in the restaurant had been moved out of the way to make a space for a dance floor, and a DJ who had set up nearby started playing music. TJ's parents, hardly ones to be called shy, were the first and only ones out on the floor, and started dancing with abandon.

Gretchen and several others who were sitting at a nearby table were laughing good-naturedly at the goofy way Fern and Vern were dancing.

TJ shook her head with annoyed indulgence, watching her parents. "Lord, that's embarrassing."

Heather smiled. "I think they're great."

Sam looked at TJ, amused. "So, what dance is that, exactly?"

She rolled her eyes. "Hell if I know," she drawled. "I think it's a cross between the funky chicken and the jitterbug, but who really knows? It's amazin' they weren't carted off to the funny farm a long time ago."

Heather scooted back her chair, stood, and grabbed Dean's hand. "Come on. Let's go join them."

Dean looked uncomfortable. "Uh, I don't dance."

"Sure you do."

He looked a little stiff.

"Come on, Dean. It'll be fun."

"Sorry, sweetheart. Not gonna happen."

She bent down and whispered something in his ear.

He colored a bit, his usually unnoticeable freckles suddenly showing, and then his brows went up. "Really?"

She nodded, biting her plump lower lip coquettishly.

Dean stood, took off his jacket, and let Heather pull his hand toward the dance floor. At the last minute, however, he turned toward Sam and pointed a finger at him. "Not a word, dude. Remember, you've got a few skeletons in the closet, too, _Gandhi._"

Sam grinned.

Dean jabbed his finger in Sam's direction for emphasis, brows raised in warning as he was dragged away by Heather.

TJ gave Sam a comical, perplexed look. "What was that about?"

He smiled tentatively, feeling a little embarrassed. "Uh, I've been going to those private yoga lessons you got me, you know, with Amber."

Her eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"It's helped. You were right, you know, about..." He looked down, not sure how to voice everything he'd experienced in the past three weeks. It was hard to describe.

She was quiet.

He looked back up at her and gave her a crooked smile. "I've been shaking hands with my feet, and they said to tell you hello."

She laughed and searched his face with her dark, expressive eyes.

His stomach did a flip, and he wanted to take her in his arms. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, "I should have thanked you a long time ago for the yoga sessions and the shoes. I'm sorry that I didn't."

She shrugged. "That's okay. I understand why you didn't."

"I don't think you do."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

He felt in his jacket pocket for the small box that held TJ's graduation gift, thinking that this was the right time to give it to her and tell her how he really felt about her. "TJ, I—"

"TJ, come dance with me!" Ralph had sort of danced his way over, swaying to the song that was playing, a beer in one hand. With the other, he grabbed TJ's hand and tugged on it.

She glanced at Sam and then said to Ralph, "I just sat down to eat." She gave Ralph a friendly smile. "Later, okay?"

Ralph bent down, brushed her hair back away from her ear with his hand in an intimate gesture, and said something into TJ's ear.

Her smile grew bigger, and she blushed. "Sure. I'd like that."

He kissed her on the cheek.

Sam's heart dropped like an anvil thrown out a ten-story window.

Ralph finally seemed to notice Sam, and he jutted his chin out in a greeting. "Hey, dude. How's it going?"

"Fine." Sam's reply didn't exactly invite conversation.

Ralph arched his brows and then backed away, swaying his way back to the dance floor, lip-syncing the words of the song and flirting with TJ the whole time until he turned around and started dancing with a group on the floor that included Gretchen and TJ's parents, along with Dean and Heather.

There was an enigmatic curve to TJ's mouth, and she seemed lost in thought as she grabbed a paper towel from the brown roll in the middle of the table. She tore off a piece and put it on her lap, and then she grabbed the plastic Heinz ketchup bottle and squirted some on her plate. Finally, as if remembering Sam's presence, she offered the bottle to him. "Want some?"

He clenched his jaw. "No, thanks."

She set it down and took a bite of her burger.

He took a sip of his beer, trying to curb the painful disappointment he felt squeezing his insides. He'd been a split second away from telling TJ how he felt about her, but now he wasn't so sure that was a good idea, considering her reaction to Ralph.

She nodded toward his plate. "Aren't you gonna eat?"

His burger and fries had been sitting there so long that they weren't exactly appetizing, and his stomach now felt like there was a brick sitting in it. "Maybe later."

She popped a fry in her mouth, and when she was done chewing it, she studied him for a moment. "So, now you can report to Gretchen that you saw me eating."

He frowned. "What?"

She poked her cheek with her tongue, quirking her mouth. "I know that she's been giving you updates, letting you know how I'm doing."

He didn't say anything.

"You could have asked me yourself, you know. I have e-mail, too."

"You said you needed space."

Her eyes lingered on him a moment. "Yeah, I did." She looked away and popped another fry in her mouth.

The silence between them stretched out, and she finally said, "Is something wrong, Sam?"

"No," he said tersely.

She raised her brows in disbelief, and her tone was skeptical. "Okay." Then she took another bite of her burger.

Sam was trying to act like it wasn't a big deal, didn't want her to think he was jealous, but he couldn't stand it any longer. "So, what's up with you and Ralph?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. We've been studying together. Turns out he's a chemistry major, so we kind of have some things in common."

"Do you like him?"

She met his eyes, but her face was unreadable. "Yeah, I do. He's a good guy."

Sam's heart broke a little, and he hid it behind a derisive snort.

Her brow creased. "What? Why did you have that reaction?"

"He just doesn't seem like your type."

"And what do you think my type is?"

"I don't know, but I would think a frat boy would be last on your list."

She frowned. "I can't believe you of all people would judge him just because he's in a fraternity. He's not like the stereotype."

Sam could feel himself heating up, his anger rising. "Just how much time have you been spending with him, TJ?"

"How is that any of your business, Sam?"

"I just don't want you to get hurt."

She huffed. "Right."

"I don't. I still care about you."

"Oh, really?" Her tone was cynical.

"Yes. You can do better than him."

"Wow, Sam. Define 'better.'" Her accent was suddenly pronounced, which meant she was irritated. "He likes me, and not just as a friend. He's smart—he's goin' to medical school in the fall. He's funny, nice, and cute, and he just asked me out on a _real_ date. I don't think I could do much better."

"I don't trust him."

"You don't know him." She suddenly scowled, her mouth in a tight line. "What's your deal, Sam? You don't believe a good-lookin' guy like Ralph could be attracted to a plain-Jane girl like me?"

Sam felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. "TJ, no. I—"

She scooted her chair back and stood, throwing her wadded up paper towel down next to her plate. Her eyes were filled with hurt. "Just because you don't want me, Sam, doesn't mean that nobody else will. I'm _finally_ beginning to realize that." Then she stalked toward the dance floor, never looking back.

He gripped his wheels, gritting his teeth, his shoulders and neck tense. Dammit. That hadn't gone at all how he'd wanted it to.

A slow song came on, and Dean and Heather headed back toward the table, where Dean sat next to Sam.

Sam hardly acknowledged them. His eyes were locked on TJ, who was now slow dancing with Ralph. She'd been taller than Ralph with her heels on, so she'd kicked them off and was eye level with him, her arms wrapped around his neck, his hands low on her slender hips.

TJ couldn't have retreated from Sam more effectively if she'd taken a jet clear across the world. He wanted to cut in, wanted to ask her to dance with him so he could feel her close to him and explain things, but there was no way.

He wasn't about to roll onto the dance floor in his wheelchair, although he knew it was possible. He was coming to terms with things, but he wasn't ready for that. He gritted his teeth in bitter frustration.

Dean leaned back in his chair, one arm resting casually over the back of it. He eyed TJ and Ralph and then arched a brow toward Sam. "You gonna let Brad Pitt move in on your girl, Sammy?"

Sam swallowed the bitterness and looked at Dean with resolve. "No. I'm not."

**XXXXXXXX**

TJ was running late, and it was official. Her parents were nuts.

The day had started out normally enough. They'd gone out shopping, her mom buying her a few more outfits that would be appropriate for her job this summer as a teaching assistant, and her dad, for once, not complaining—even when they'd gone into Victoria's Secret to buy her some new "drawers," as he called underwear.

Her dad hated shopping unless it was for hunting equipment or classic cars, so his amiable manner had made TJ suspicious. When they were done shopping, her parents had insisted on seeing a matinee movie—Spider Man III—even though they'd never seen the first two, because it was the only movie that hadn't already started or that they wouldn't have to wait forty-five minutes to see.

The movie wouldn't be over until seven, and TJ had protested that she would rather go home and start packing than see it, since they were starting the long drive to Kentucky tomorrow, and it also wouldn't give her enough time to get ready for her first date with Ralph, who was coming to her apartment at eight to take her out to dinner. Her parents, however, had insisted.

Then, even weirder, they'd been in the movie, and her mom had received a text_. _TJ had never known her mom to text anyone or receive one from anyone ever—since the invention of texting. Her mom always said, "Why would I want to type out a message to someone when I can call 'em or they can just call me?"

And, _then_, even weirder than that, her mom had suddenly gotten a terrible stomach ache right after the text and insisted they leave, even though the movie was almost at the end, and they wouldn't get to see what happened.

TJ was furious. They'd made her sit through a movie she didn't want to see and then didn't let her watch the end. Was her mom's stomach trouble really so bad that she couldn't have waited another five minutes for the dang movie to be over?

They were in her dad's old, black Chevy Tahoe, and TJ glanced at her cell phone as they parked in a space near her apartment. It was now 7:26, and she only had thirty-four minutes to get ready for her date. Great. Her first _real_ date with a cute guy in, like, her entire life, and her parents were trying to sabotage it for some reason.

She liked Ralph, and if she hadn't seen Sam last night at her graduation party, she might have been more excited to go out with him. Ralph was everything a girl could want—except that he wasn't Sam.

She tried hard to convince herself that she had enjoyed dancing with Ralph last night, that she was ecstatic that he had asked her out; but all she'd been able to think about when she'd had her arms wrapped around his neck was how handsome Sam looked in his jacket and tie, even though, when she carefully and surreptitiously glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, his features were surly and dark and sort of stormy.

What was his problem? He didn't want her, but he didn't want anyone else to have her, either? If he hadn't been so clear that he didn't want to go any further with her than friendship, she might almost think he'd been jealous.

Or maybe she'd been right in the first place. Maybe he'd just found it hard to believe that a guy like Ralph could be interested in her. Well, screw him. Maybe she would come to care about Ralph as much as she did Sam someday, and maybe Ralph would feel the same way about her, if things ever got that far. It was just their first date, after all.

She was in the back seat of the Tahoe, and she opened her door. Before she could step out, her mom said, "You know, I'm feelin' a lot better. Vern, let's go out to dinner, too. I don't feel like being cooped up in the apartment tonight."

TJ stiffened, not believing her ears. "Are you _serious_?"

Her mother blinked at her, the picture of innocence. "Yeah, hon. We'll just drop you off. No need for us to go back into the apartment. I'm fine in the clothes I've got on. What about you, Vern?"

Vern nodded fervently. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm good."

TJ stared at them. "Y'all are crazy. You know that, right?"

Her mom winked. "You wouldn't have us any other way, sugar."

TJ rolled her eyes and got out of the car. She now had only thirty minutes, and the clock was ticking away the minutes. It usually didn't take her very long to get ready, but she'd wanted to take extra care tonight, had wanted to look good for Ralph.

She didn't have time for a shower, now, but she could at least do something with her hair and put some makeup on. Her hair would take the longest. She hadn't gotten used to the new style, yet, and it took her a while to get it looking like she wanted it. She wondered if her ponytail holder had left a crease in it. She would have to wet it again if it had.

As she walked hurriedly toward her apartment, she heard her mom call, "Have fun on your date, hon!"

_I will_, _no thanks to you_, she thought with annoyance.

When she got to her door, she turned the key in the doorknob lock first and was confused when, instead of unlocking it, she locked it. That was weird. She could've sworn she'd locked it earlier when she and her parents had gone shopping.

Oh, well. She didn't have time to worry about it. She twisted the knob, and to her surprise, the door opened. Apparently, she hadn't locked the deadbolt, either.

Frowning, she walked into the apartment, threw her keys on the counter like she always did, and made a step toward her bedroom with the single-minded focus of getting herself dressed before Ralph got there.

"TJ?" said a familiar, slightly husky voice.

She felt as if she'd suddenly been struck by lightening, and she froze in her tracks, her heart stopping. She stood there for a second, and when her heart started beating again, she turned to see Sam sitting in his wheelchair near the far end of her sofa. Her coffee table had been shoved against a wall, out of the way.

The sun was setting, and her apartment was dim except for a small lamp on an end table by the sofa that he had turned on. He was wearing a faded, black-denim shirt that was button-down in style, and a little bit of a white t-shirt peaked out at the collar. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscular, and the shirt accentuated that.

His hands rested on the wheels of his chair, his long fingers loosely gripping them.

_Mercy. _Even just looking at his hands turned her on, made her remember what those fingers felt like when they brushed over her cheekbone, her jaw, her ribs, made her remember the warmth of his hand cupping her breast. She held in a groan.

He was wearing his jeans without the holes, and his shoes were new Adidas tennis shoes that she'd never seen him wear before. His feet were centered on the footplate of his chair, his legs looking neat and even.

His dark-brown hair was shaggy, as usual, and curled up slightly around his ears, just the way she liked it. In short, he looked incredibly hot, and she was angry with herself for noticing.

She held her breath, willing her stomach to stop lurching like she was on a merry-go-round. When was her body going to stop reacting to him this way? She reminded herself to breathe again so she could speak. "Sam? How did you—what are you doing here?"

His face was serious, brow creased a little. "I need to talk to you, TJ, but, first, I need your help."

She frowned. "With what?"

He looked at her intently. "Will you come over here to me?"

A million thoughts were frantically swirling around in her mind—so many questions—but she forced herself to be calm and glanced at the wall clock in her kitchen. Twenty-two minutes left to get ready. She was running out of time, and she reminded herself that she was mad at him and tried to stoke her anger so she wouldn't turn into a puddle of mush. "I don't know what this is all about, but I can't do this right now. I have a date with Ralph in about twenty minutes, and I have to get ready."

He gave her the puppy-dog eyes. "Please, TJ?"

She stood rooted to her spot. "What do you need help with, Sam?"

"Come here, and I'll show you."

It was a bad idea. Whenever she was near him, she lost all of her self-control, couldn't think straight.

"TJ, please."

Oh, hell. She couldn't resist him, and she had the feeling he knew that. She exhaled and reluctantly went over to him.

He locked the brakes on his chair, took his feet off the footplate, did something to his jeans, like he was squeezing something on his upper thighs, and then pressed his hands down on the seat of his chair, locking his arms in place and pushing his butt up. When he did so, his legs starting making a weird, sort of metallic clicking noise.

At first, she thought it was his knees but then realized it couldn't be. Nobody's knees made that kind of noise.

When his legs were straight, he said, "Give me your hands."

It dawned on her then what was going on, that he had on leg braces, that he was about to stand. She reached out to him, trying to act nonchalant, like she wasn't about to burst with happiness for him.

He was still bent over, pressing his hands down on the seat of the chair, arms straining. Instead of grabbing her hands, he grabbed first one of her forearms near the elbow and then the other, gripping tightly, making her feel wobbly as he stabilized himself into a stand.

She felt him start to teeter and grabbed his arms in almost the same way he was holding onto her, sort of a Roman-style handshake, trying to give him more stability.

He sort of leaned back a little on his heels, and there was one last click of the braces, and his knees were completely stiff and straight. He smiled, just a tad out of breath. "So, what do you think?"

She had to look up at him because he was so tall—several inches taller than she was. It gave her a tiny thrill, and she couldn't help but smile just a bit. "You sounded like one of those adjustable lawn chairs from the '80s."

He laughed, giving his dimples maximum exposure. "This is pretty much all I can do right now, but I can take steps when I'm at the parallel bars, and I'll probably start practicing with forearm crutches this week."

She thought her heart was going to explode. She was...proud of him, but why was he doing this? "Sam, this is awesome—like, really, really awesome—but I don't understand why you're here, especially now. _I have a date tonight_," she reiterated.

He looked down into her eyes. "Please, Teej, just hear me out."

She sighed. "You've got five minutes."

He swallowed, and his eyes grew soulful. "TJ, I've been doing a lot of thinking in the past few weeks. It's been hard, you know, adjusting again. The wound was fresh, almost like I was starting all over again, like the SCI had just happened. I guess I had more hope invested in the demon than I realized."

Okay. Maybe he deserved more than five minutes.

"I wanted to be cured so badly, and the plan I had—the way I thought things would go down..." He looked away for a second as if trying to find the right words, and then he frowned. "I guess up until I killed the demon, a part of me never really believed my injury was permanent, although I knew the science of it, the cold, hard facts. Even before the demon, there was the hope that we'd research and find something else supernatural—something more benign—that could heal me."

She could feel a lump growing in her throat, feeling his anguish.

"The day I killed Azazel, it started to sink in that this is my reality now—not just being unable to walk, but everything else that goes with my paralysis—and it's forever. It's all so hard for me to deal with, so embarrassing at times. I didn't want you to have to deal with it, too. I thought you deserved more. I didn't want you to be weighed down with the issues of my disability."

Her chin trembled, and her vision began to blur a little. "Shouldn't that be my decision?"

"Yes. I know that, now, and I'm sorry." He reached up very carefully and slowly, obviously not wanting to lose his balance, and rubbed her cheek tenderly with his thumb.

She couldn't help herself and leaned into his touch, closing her eyes, inching just a bit closer to him and placing her free hand on his waist. She could feel him sway a bit, but he quickly grabbed her upper arm again and righted himself.

"Last night, the argument we had—you misunderstood. It wasn't that I thought Ralph wouldn't be attracted to you. He'd be crazy not to be, and I was jealous. I was afraid I was too late."

She opened her eyes and looked up to him, meeting his gaze, her pulse quickening. "Too late for what?"

"I've been lying to you about how I feel."

She thought maybe she'd lost her mind and was delusional. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? She suddenly felt a little lightheaded.

He put his hands on her shoulders, gripping firmly and then lightly as his balance fluctuated. When he was stable again, he pulled her closer, and she wrapped her arms around his middle, becoming his balance, holding on tight to him. He smelled like a mixture of spicy male and clean laundry, and the scent of him made her feel slightly tipsy.

He brushed his lips over her forehead, and when she lifted her face up to him, he brushed them over her eyelids and then down to her cheekbones. "Don't go out with Ralph," he said, kissing the corner of her mouth. "I want you to dance with me tonight," he said softly.

Her heart was hammering now, and she was sure that she must have gone as bonkers as her parents were, that he hadn't just said one of the most romantic things she'd ever heard. "I—I don't understand. What changed?"

He looked into her eyes. "The yoga—Amber—it's helped me in a way that's hard to describe. I feel like maybe I can handle living in this body after all. Like you said, I'm all here, and I can finally see that."

She couldn't help but gloat a little. "I told you."

He smiled. "I know. I should have listened instead of being such a douche about it."

She huffed.

"I'm regaining my self-confidence, and I'm not so...angry. I don't feel like half of me is missing anymore." He paused and grew more intense. "The only part of me that's missing is you."

His words took her breath away, but it all seemed too good to be true. "Are you just doing this because you miss me—you miss our friendship? I mean, maybe, you know, it's one of those things where you're telling yourself that you want a relationship with me, forcing it, because—"

"TJ, I've had feelings for you for a long time. I didn't tell you because I thought you deserved better."

"Then you're an idiot."

"So I've been told."

She smiled, figuring he was referring to Dean.

"Oh, I have a gift for you. It was supposed to be for your graduation yesterday. It's in my right pocket, but I think you'd better get it."

She frowned a little, wondering what it could be, and felt in his right jeans pocket, careful not to be too jerky and throw him off balance. Her fingers closed over a small box, and she pulled it out and stared at it.

"Open it."

She let go of him with her other hand and felt his grip tighten on her shoulders. She opened the box, and her eyes watered with tears, which she fought by blinking and swallowing hard. It was diamond stud earrings. "Thank you, Sam." She looked up at him. "They're beautiful."

His smile was a little wry. "I know it probably would have been cooler to give you just one, you know, like Molly and Judd, but I figured you might need two for when you wear them to work."

She laughed and then got up on the tips of her toes and gave him a kiss on his mouth.

He deepened it, coaxing her mouth open with his tongue.

Her heart soared—in fact, her whole body felt like it was soaring—and she thought she might die a happy girl right then and there. He was the best kisser in the universe.

He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead against hers. "I love you, TJ. You showed me how to live again. You showed me there's more than one way to have a happy ending."

A lump the size of Mt. Everest formed in her throat, and she couldn't stop a few tears from sliding down her cheeks. "I love you, too, Sam."

There was a bit of a twinkle in his eye when he looked at her, and his voice was like silk. "You bring me _true joy_."

She froze, and time stood still.

He knew. She could hear it in the way he said the words. Then it all clicked into place, why her parents had been acting so weird. They'd been in on all this with him.

There was a hush in the room as he waited for her reaction.

She bit her bottom lip, holding in a smile. "They told you, didn't they?"

A wicked grin spread across his face.

A bit of a laugh escaped from her. "I'm named after my aunts, sort of. My parents actually weren't on crack when they named me."

He was still grinning. "I know. You're named after your dad's sister Gertrude—Tru for short—and your mother's sister Joyce. Since you were adopted, your parents thought it was fitting because they said you were a blessing and brought them happiness."

She rolled her eyes. "Gag."

He chuckled. "True Joy Nelek. It's the perfect name for you."

"Oh, please. It has to be one of the dumbest names on the planet."

He nudged the corner of her mouth with his lips. "I don't think so."

She lost her train of thought for a second, feeling a shiver as his lips tickled her mouth, but then remembered what she'd wanted to say. "So, Fern and Vern were in on all this?"

"Yeah," he said between kisses.

She smiled, feeling a little coy. "So, since you know my full name, does that mean you're my soul mate?"

He paused in his kissing and looked at her, humor in his expression. "Of course."

She felt a blush coming on and looked down.

He took his hand off her shoulder and cupped her chin with his fingers, lifting her face, swaying a little at the movement and quickly regaining his balance. "Are you okay with that?"

"No, not at all," she said with a teasing grin.

He responded with dimples and bent down a little to kiss her neck, moving his hand away from her face and gently pulling the ponytail holder out of hair.

She inhaled the scent of him and let herself bask in the simple pleasure, feeling a bit of ecstasy when he ran his fingers through her loose hair. When she came back to her senses, she realized it had to be after eight, now, and her date had never come to her door. "So what did you do with Ralph?"

He stiffened a little and lifted his head to look at her. "Dean had a talk with him."

She felt a pang of guilt and groaned. "Poor Ralph."

"He'll be okay. Dean came up with some story about why you couldn't make it tonight."

"And Dean helped you get up here to my apartment?"

He resumed kissing her, this time on the other corner of her mouth. "Uh-huh."

"How?"

His smile was a little self-conscious. "I scooted up one step at a time on my butt, and he carried my chair for me to the top."

"Hm. Clever."

"Uh-huh," he murmured absently between kisses to her jaw.

"How—how did you get the door unlocked?"

He stopped kissing her and cleared his throat. "Uh, I picked it, just like I did that time Bobby and I found you when you were sick."

"What?" She realized there were a lot of things she still didn't know about him, and she started to ask him why he knew how to pick a lock.

"Enough talking." He began kissing her again, this time directly on her mouth, probing with his tongue, suddenly serious and more demanding.

It ignited a fire inside her, and she forgot what they'd been talking about. Whatever it was, it couldn't be that important.

She felt like the Ugly Duckling that had turned into the swan, and Sam made the fairy tale complete. He was her knight in shining armor, only his armor was a wheelchair—and, okay, so it was mostly black, and titanium wasn't that shiny. Maybe his leg braces were shiny?

Whatever. The only thing that really mattered was that she loved him, and he loved her back.

_**THE END...SORT OF**_

_**A/N: Okay. Maybe there's a steamy little epilogue, too. Love you guys!**_


	19. Chapter 19

_**A/N: As promised, dear readers, here is a rather naughty little epilogue. I AM GIVING IT AN M RATING. It has no real bearing on the actual story, so if a steamy, detailed love scene makes you uncomfortable, don't read it. You're not really missing anything. For those of you who like a randy romp, however, enjoy!**_

**Epilogue**

TJ heard beeping. Then she felt the mattress shift, heard the rustle of sheets, and her sleep-befuddled brain realized the beeping was Sam's alarm clock.

He set it for four-thirty in the morning every time she stayed the night with him, which was pretty much every night since she'd come back from Kentucky. He did it so he could wake up to use the bathroom, so he wouldn't have an accident.

TJ had told him she didn't care, that it wouldn't be a big deal if it happened. Sam, of course, wouldn't listen.

She felt bad that he thought he needed to get up just for that, that he interrupted his sleep because of her, but she understood that it was important to his self-esteem, that an accident would be embarrassing for him, so she let it go. Usually, the alarm didn't even wake her, and Sam just got back in bed once he was done and went back to sleep.

Her mamaw was probably looking down from heaven, completely scandalized that TJ was sleeping with Sam when they weren't married. TJ really didn't think God would mind, though. How could what she had with Sam be wrong, be a sin? He was her best friend, her lover, her soul mate. He enriched every facet of her life, and she was a better person because of him.

Her stay in Kentucky had seemed like the longest of her life, but she'd still gone because she knew her family would be disappointed if she didn't. Before Sam had told her how he felt, she'd already planned on staying with her parents for the month of June, since the professor she was going to be working with wasn't teaching the first summer session, and she wouldn't start work until July.

The month on the farm had dragged on, but knowing Sam was waiting for her when she got back to San Diego had made missing him slightly less painful—not to mention the fact that she'd talked to him at least once a day, and they'd texted each other several times a day.

She'd been back for two weeks, now, had started her job as a teaching assistant, and she and Sam had been almost inseparable—when they weren't working, of course.

That was the hardest part of their relationship so far, and part of the reason she stayed over with him so much. She worked during the day, mostly helping her professor with research and some light teaching duties, and Sam still worked evenings doing the books at Shorty's.

Her hours weren't too bad right now, but it was going to get a lot harder to find time for each other once they both started classes in the fall. They'd deal with it, though. At least they had their nights and weekends together.

She heard the quiet, almost imperceptible swooshing noise of Sam's wheels as he came near the bed. She opened her eyes and watched him, knowing he probably couldn't tell her eyes were open in the dim light of the room. The blue glow of the alarm clock was the only illumination, but her eyes were adjusted to it.

He was a form, a shadow, all stealth and grace as he scooted himself forward on the seat of his chair and then transferred himself to the bed. He made it look easy, but she knew the strength it took, knew how hard the road had been for him to get to that point.

Although she couldn't see the details of him that well, she knew he was wearing boxers and nothing else. That thought alone made her blood pressure surge.

Once he was sitting on the side of the bed, he bent over and picked up his legs and lifted them onto the bed. Then, with his hands, he scooted his legs over toward her and followed that by pushing down on the mattress with his hands and scooting his butt toward her side, too.

Finally, he crossed one leg over the other so that when he flipped over onto his stomach, they would be in the right position. When he did turn over onto his belly, he was back on his side of the bed again, and he grabbed the top sheet and comforter and pulled them over himself.

A lot of things that she took for granted, like the simple act of turning over onto her stomach, was more difficult for him, took more steps, but he never complained. She'd never known anyone with more dignity or class than Sam, never known anyone with more strength of character and determination, more stoicism—and she'd never known anyone sexier.

She shuffled herself over onto his side of the bed, snuggled up next to him, and lay her head on his pillow, just inches from his face. She could make out his features now that she was so close. "Hi."

He cocked one sleepy eye open. "You should be asleep."

"So should you."

He gave her a noncommittal grunt.

She gave him a playful smile. "Wanna play 'What Am I Kissing?'"

His mouth curved in amusement. "You need to sleep, TJ. You'll be tired for work."

"It's Saturday morning, Sam. We can sleep late today."

He quirked a brow and seemed almost hopeful. "It is?"

"Yes."

"Oh, yeah. It is." His shaggy hair was a little mussed, and the dimple that was visible deepened.

She thought he'd never looked hotter. She pulled the covers off of both him and herself and sat on top of his hips near his butt, distributing some of her weight onto her knees, just in case her weight might be too much for him, since he wouldn't be able to feel it. The last thing she wanted to do was inadvertently strain his back.

He had confessed to her recently that her Kentucky accent turned him on, so she leaned forward, nibbled on his ear, and drawled, "Close your eyes."

He did.

She swung her leg around to where she was kneeling next to his legs, gently picked up his left foot, and kissed his ankle bone. "I'm kissing something small and hard. It reminds me of a piece of hard candy...makes me want to suck on it." She smiled vampishly to herself and added, "Maybe I will."

He buried his head in his pillow and groaned.

She smiled, knowing that, even though he couldn't feel it, an important part of the experience for him was visualization. "Sam? I'm waiting," she said in a sing-song voice. "What am I kissing?"

He turned his head to where he could breathe again, eyes shut. "Um, my ankle?"

"Details, please."

"Ankle bone."

"Close."

"Right one?"

She made a buzzer noise. "Try again."

"Left."

"Hm, that was a lot of guesses, but I'm feeling generous tonight. One point for Sam, and we get to move up."

His mouth curved, and she couldn't resist leaning over and kissing his shallow dimple.

"That's cheating," he said.

She nibbled his ear again. "Rules were made to be broken."

"Mm."

God, how she loved him. She loved this game, too, because his whole body turned her on, and she loved his long legs, loved touching them, didn't care that they weren't perfect.

She kissed him on the cheek and got back to their game. "Okay. Where was I?" She moved down to his legs again and kissed his calf. "I'm kissing something that's sort of round and hairy."

He chuckled. "My calf."

"No. Your butt," she teased.

He laughed. "My butt's not hairy."

"Says you."

He was still smiling, eyes still closed.

"Okay. You're right," she conceded. "It was your calf, but you didn't say which one."

"The left?"

"Ding! Score another one for Sam."

She kissed the area behind his left knee. "I'm kissing something that's..." She thought for a moment, trying to think of what the back of his knee reminded her of. "I'm kissing something that has faint little creases, like a fine, aged piece of leather."

"That's very poetic of you."

"Thanks. And it's a little hairy, too."

"Okay. Not so poetic."

She gave a little giggle.

He pretended to be pensive, furrowing his brow, although it was pretty easy to figure out where she was. She wasn't making things that difficult. "Hm. A hairy piece of leather?"

She kissed the back of his knee again for good measure. "So, what am I kissing?"

"The back of my knee?"

She tsked. "I'm going to start taking points off if you're not specific. Which one?"

"Left."

"Ding! You win again." Her voice was suggestive. "We're getting closer."

"Mm. I hope so."

She smiled. It was part of the game, the anticipation of what he knew was to come, part of the pleasure. It was for her, too.

She fingered the waistband on the inside of his maroon-colored boxers and spoke in her most genteel manner. "My, my. I think you're wearing entirely too much clothing, Mr. Winchester. Do you mind if I do somethin' to remedy that?"

He showed her a dimple. "No."

She smiled inwardly, knowing what a big deal that was for him, letting her see all of him, uninhibited. He was becoming more and more comfortable in his own skin, and it just made him even more attractive to her.

She made her movements slow and deliberate, giving him a running commentary of her actions, her tone admiring. "I'm sliding off your boxers, Sam...past your upper thighs...past that leathery part of the backs of your knees." She slid the boxers past his calves and then kissed them. "Mm. I'm at your calves, now, and I couldn't resist a little pit stop to give them another kiss."

She ran her fingertips over his feet and the bony part of his ankles. "I'm at your feet, now, and I love how they feel, so smooth, like polished stone. Maybe I'll suck on your toes this time, instead of those hard-candy ankle bones." She made her voice lower, more sultry. "But that's nothing compared to what I'm gonna do to your fingers."

He inhaled a deep breath and exhaled, eyes still closed. "Teej, you're driving me crazy."

"Hm. Well, we can't have that, now, can we? At least, not yet." She pulled his boxers off over his feet with a flourish and let them drop from her fingertips to the floor.

"Okay. Now, where was I in our little game?" She pretended to ponder for a second. "Oh, yes. I remember." She worked her way back to the area where his thigh and buttock met and kissed the little crevice there. "I'm kissing something that reminds me of a smile on a smiley face."

"Huh?"

"A smile, like the big smile on a smiley face."

He sounded a little incredulous. "Are you talking about my butt cheek?"

"Sort of. You know, that crease where it meets your thigh. Which side?"

He opened his eyes. "You're kissing my ass? That's kind of weird when it's literal."

She gave a small giggle. "I prefer kinky, and I don't discriminate. I like _all_ your body parts. Besides," she added, feeling a little naughty, "you know you like it."

He paused and then smiled. "Yeah, I do."

"Close your eyes. No peeking."

He closed his eyes. "My left butt cheek," he clarified.

"Ooh, very good. Can't put one over on you." She bent close to his ear, let her breath warm him. "We're gettin' closer, Sam."

"Hurry."

She smiled devilishly and made her way to his left hip—one of her favorite spots—and kissed it. "I'm kissing something that rhymes with...cow chip."

He started laughing. "That's not exactly a good visual."

She smiled. "Sorry. It's the first thing that popped into my head. I grew up on a farm, you know."

"Right."

"So what is it?"

"My left hip."

"Yes." She pretended to be dismayed. "Hm. That was good. Too good. I must have made things too easy for you. I think I'll start over on the other side," she drawled.

He groaned, and his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist before she could get away. "I don't think so."

His grip was gentle but firm, and she knew the potential power behind it, knew what incredible upper-body strength he had. Her mouth went dry, and she felt a pleasant, urgent tightening of her belly. With her other hand, she ran her fingertips over his bicep muscle and up to his shoulder.

He shivered and let go of her wrist.

She straddled him again, sitting further down on his thighs, and kissed the indentation where his back met his buttocks, slowly making her way to the area where she knew his sensation began, at his waistline. "Sam, I'm very close."

He'd explained to her before that the area between where he'd lost sensation and where sensation began sort of felt like a band around his waist, and he didn't usually like to be touched there, that it was an uncomfortable feeling. Lately, though, he'd been more open to it because, if she touched him there in the right way, it was incredibly pleasurable for him. She found it a bit tricky, though, to get it just the way he wanted it.

"Kiss me, there, TJ." His breathing had gotten a little heavier. "I wanna try it."

She kissed him on the lower, mid part of his back very lightly. "Here?"

"Yes."

She flicked her tongue out, lightly tasting the area.

He fisted a handful of the bottom sheet. "Oh, God. Don't stop."

She ran her tongue along the entire "band" on his back, keeping her touch light and soft as a feather. She knew not to be too hard or overzealous, that his skin was ultra sensitive where he still had sensation, that everything he felt was amplified.

He was breathing even heavier. "Please, Teej, keep going."

"Not yet." She wanted to prolong his pleasure, build his anticipation even more. "We'll get back to that, later," she said impishly.

He groaned with frustration.

She lifted up the hair at the nape of his neck and nibbled and kissed him there, inhaling the scent of him, the faint smell of soap, shampoo, and something much more primal, something very male and very Sam.

He drew in a breath. "Ah. That feels so good."

She loved hearing that, loved knowing that she was giving him pleasure. She swirled her tongue down lower on his neck.

His shoulders stiffened.

"Does it still feel good?"

"Yes. Don't stop."

She didn't. She lingered there, licking and kissing him all over his neck, flicking her tongue in his ear, sucking on his ear lobe, then making her way to his face, kissing his eyes, his cheekbone, his jawline, remembering how good it felt when he did the same to her. "I love you, Sam," she whispered.

"I love you, too, TJ," he said, sounding breathless.

She felt a rush of joy, amazed and awed by the beauty of what she shared with him.

She raised up and ran her fingertips over his muscular shoulders and down the backs of his arms.

He let out a contented moan.

She smiled at the noise he made. He'd said that the backs of his arms were one of the places where he was particularly sensitive.

When she was done with his arms, she worked her way to his fingers, which never failed to turn her on. She felt that pleasant tightening in her belly, a pulsing that made her feel impatient, that demanded satisfaction, knowing what those fingers could do to her. She sucked on each one, loving the length of them, tickling them with her tongue.

"TJ, that feels...God, it feels so good." He shuddered a little. "Don't forget the other hand."

"Mm. I wouldn't dare. I wanna taste every inch of you, Sam," she said, and started on the fingers of his other hand.

When she was done with that, she went back up to his shoulders, lightly massaging the muscles there, and then feathered her fingers down his spine, keeping her touch extra light over the long scar that trailed perfectly down his spine for several inches, the result of the surgery from his SCI.

He flinched.

She stopped, afraid he didn't like it, knowing that it was hypersensitive, that sometimes it felt good, and sometimes it didn't.

"It's okay," he said. "Touch me just like you were."

She continued to brush her fingertips along the scar, delighting in his reaction, the way he breathed, the soft groans of pleasure he made. "You're so strong, Sam, your body so beautiful."

She pulled off the t-shirt she was wearing—one of his that hung loosely on her—and put her mouth close to his ear, letting her body, her breasts, rub against him. "I burn for you. Can you feel my heat?"

He swallowed hard and said raggedly, "Yes."

She slid her body down his back, letting her breasts make a trail and enjoying the skin-to-skin contact, until her mouth was at the special area of his waist again. She resumed the exploration of the area with her tongue the same way she had before, the way he had liked, knowing he was close to experiencing his version of an orgasm, knowing she shouldn't say anything now because it was all very psychological for him, that the more he concentrated and visualized, the better it was for him.

Every muscle in his back was taut, was bulging, and she felt them with her hands, even as she still tasted his waist with her tongue, swirling it in tiny circles.

She _was _burning for him. His chiseled back was a masterpiece, scars and all. She wanted him, was more attracted to him, than any other guy she'd ever known. There was something about Sam that drove her wild, made her wanton, turned her into a woman in every sense of the word.

He fisted the sheet again, buried his forehead in his pillow for a second, and then lifted his head up, his breathing harsh and rapid. "Oh...my God, TJ. That feels—oh, God." He shuddered.

She kept up the steady little circles with her tongue, could feel the vibration of him, felt his body heat change, get hotter. Then, finally, slowly, his muscles began to relax, although he was still a little breathless.

She stopped her motion when she was sure he was spent and lay down close to him, head on her own pillow, and idly rubbed her fingertips along the smooth skin of his forearm, watching his face.

His breathing returning to normal, he opened his eyes and pushed himself to where he was lying more on his side, but his upper torso was a little twisted, and his legs remained more in the position from when he was lying on his stomach.

She helped him with his legs, placed them together and bent his knees so he'd be more stable. He could have done it himself, but she liked that he let her do it, that he trusted her and felt comfortable with her.

His mouth curved upward. "Thank you."

She knew he wasn't talking about the help with his legs. "It was my pleasure," she drawled.

He reached over and pulled her close to him. "I'm gonna show you pleasure."

The words sent a shiver down her spine.

With the lithe grace of a cat, he used his tremendous upper-body strength to maneuver himself to where he was on top of her. He kissed her neck and murmured, "Is this okay?"

"Uh-huh." She loved the weight of him on top of her, loved the feel of his hard chest muscles and ribs pressing into her skin, loved the feel of his soft kisses on her neck.

Using his arms to move himself, he began to trail kisses over her collarbone, down to her breasts, where he sucked first one nipple and then the other until they were almost painfully hard.

She felt a flame ignite within her that was quickly building into an inferno. "Oh, Sam," she groaned, hardly able to get the words out.

He circled his tongue over her chest tube scars, which, for some reason, were extremely sensitive, much more so than the surgical scar on her upper abdomen.

She sucked in a lungful of air at the sensation, which was sort of painful and extremely enjoyable at the same time.

He moved down to her belly, kissing and tasting her with his tongue, the whole time holding up his body with his arms, the muscles in his shoulders and arms taut and bulging. "Scoot up a little and take your panties off for me."

Her heart started to hammer, and she did as he asked, scooting up a little closer to the head of the bed and sliding off her underwear, still feeling his kisses on her belly, even as she lifted her hips to get the panties off.

She was beginning to breathe hard, could feel herself getting moist for him.

He was kissing perilously close to her pubic area, and when it became obvious that he wasn't going to stop, was going to use his tongue to pleasure her in her most private places, she ran her fingers through his hair and pulled slightly upward, indicating that she wanted him to stop. "Sam, I don't want you to, um...you know..."

She didn't want him in _that_ area with his tongue. He'd tried it another time before, and she hadn't let him. She was surprisingly prudish when it came to that, felt shy about it.

His eyes smoldered in the strange, ethereal glow of the room. "Just try it, TJ. Just once."

"It's embarrassing, Sam."

"Why?"

"Because—I mean, doesn't it sort of gross you out?"

He pulled himself up to where he could kiss her mouth, covering her lips with his, probing and gliding his tongue deep, sucking and claiming her as his—showing her what could be. When he had thoroughly kissed her and turned her into a puddle of warm honey, he smiled, giving her roguish dimples. "No, it doesn't gross me out. Let me do it, TJ. I want to."

Suddenly, the thought of him doing what he'd just done to her mouth down _there _didn't seem quite so embarrassing. It was quite appealing, actually. In fact, the thought of it nearly drove her mad with desire. "Okay," she said hoarsely.

He started over again, kissing and licking what seemed like every inch of her, even the insides of her thighs—hot and moist and divine.

She began to imagine what it would feel like for his tongue to stroke her in her most private area, the moisture of it, the heat of it—the precision of it. By the time he reached that area again, she was trembling with desire.

Slowly, he licked her there, and all thoughts of shyness left her mind. All thoughts, period, left her mind.

He circled and thrust his tongue into her in a slow, rhythmic motion that reduced her world to a pinpoint. Her entire body, every fiber of her being, was focused on Sam and what he was doing to her.

She held onto his shoulders, clenching them tighter as her body responded to him, as her hips rocked in a little involuntary dance with him that caused a crescendo of fire low down in her belly.

She needed more of it. "Oh, Sam." She inhaled a sharp breath, her body tingling all over. "A little faster. A little faster."

He obliged.

"Oh, my Lord, have mercy." Her whole body was tensing, all the blood in her body rushing to where he was, the pleasure she felt blinding and deafening her to anything but the sensation of his wet tongue and his hot breath and what they were doing to her.

Finally, in a burst of white-hot euphoria, she exploded in a frenzy of exquisite spasms, and she couldn't help the outbursts and groans of rapture that escaped from her. Her brain felt like it was being flooded with all things beautiful and pleasurable and lovely.

It was the most intense orgasm she'd ever had in her life, and when it was over, she sank bonelessly into the mattress and lay still, except for her panting breaths, completely speechless, eyes closed.

She could feel Sam's weight shift, could hear the sheets rustle as he pulled himself up beside her.

She opened her eyes to see him lying on his side again, facing her, adjusting his legs accordingly. Then, he touched her sternum very lightly with his fingertips.

She flinched, her body still hyperaware of every touch, every sensation.

She'd once gone snow skiing with her church's youth group as a teenager, and they'd had fun going outside in their bathing suits and staying in the freezing cold until they couldn't stand it anymore and then running in and jumping into the ski lodge's heated pool, letting the warm water envelop them and soothe their chilled skin.

She sort of felt like that now, only it was reversed. She was hot and burning up, like she had a fever, and the cool air of the room felt good, soothed her naked body, as did the tender touch of Sam's fingers.

He brushed them lightly over her collarbone. "Your skin is so soft and smooth. It's like satin." His voice was husky, and it infiltrated her body and warmed her in a different way, like a cup of hot tea.

Her breathing was evening out, but she felt overly emotional, still couldn't speak. Instead, she ran her fingers over the skin of his arm as he continued to idly stroke her chest. If she'd been a cat, she would have started purring.

He gave her a tentative smile. "I love that you're not afraid to tell me what you like and that you're so...unrestrained. When you climax like that, TJ, I feel it, too. I live through you."

He'd told her that before, but she never tired of hearing it. She turned on her side, facing him.

He put his arm around her, pulled her close to him, and kissed her on the lips.

She could taste and smell a little bit of herself on him, but it didn't repel her. Instead, it was almost as if she had claimed him, made him more hers.

"Your pleasure is my pleasure," he said.

"_You_ are the reason for my pleasure, Sam. That was...Good Lord, God Almighty. That was unlike anything I've ever experienced before. You make me feel so alive."

He placed his hand on her cheek and rubbed his thumb lightly along her cheekbone. "You make me feel like a man."

It was the highest compliment he could have given her. She took his hand and kissed his palm, meeting his eyes and savoring the moment, telling him without words what he meant to her. Then, she sat up, pulled the covers over both of them, and turned so she could spoon into his body.

He put his arm protectively over her, and she felt wrapped in his body, like she was in a warm, safe cocoon.

Before she drifted off to sleep, however, she remembered that he should be on his stomach, that he hadn't placed a pillow between his legs for sleeping on his side, that he could develop a pressure sore on his legs where his knees rubbed together.

Without saying a word, she raised up and leaned over him, relishing the feel of his ribs against her belly, grabbing an extra pillow that was always handy on the floor next to the bed, and carefully placed it between his legs.

He opened his eyes for a second but didn't say anything.

She lay down and nestled into him again, as if nothing had happened.

He lifted up her hair and kissed the nape of her neck in a silent thank you and then put his arm around her again, hugging her into him.

She gently took his hand, kissed his knuckles, and drifted off to sleep.

**THE END**

**_A/N: There is now a sequel to this story called Rocket Science._  
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	20. Chapter 20

Hi guys!

Sorry if this is overkill, but some of you asked me to add on an update to my other two stories to let you know when I posted the latest story in the Redefining Joy AU, so here it is.

The story is called _Remembering Joy_, and I have posted Chapter 1 today and will post Chapter 2 tomorrow (Wednesday, May 30th).

Thanks to all of you for reading my other stories, and I hope this new one doesn't disappoint! :)

Take care,

Jen


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